Today, I was working and processing files while on a Teams call with a coworker. We weren’t really talking much. I was just focused on my work and lost in my thoughts.

And then, without even meaning to, I said it out loud.

“I miss my home.”

The moment the words left my mouth, I froze.

Not because I was embarrassed, but because I realized I wasn’t talking about the house I’m sitting in now.

I was talking about my old home.

The home Rodney and I shared.

The home where our life happened.

The home where his shoes sat by the door. Where we watched television together. Where holidays came and went. Where we built routines without even realizing we were building memories.

For a moment, I found myself missing the physical space just as much as I miss him.

When Rodney died, I eventually moved. I bought a new house. I thought that over time it would start to feel like home. I’ve spent the last year painting, decorating, organizing, fixing things, and trying to make this place comfortable.

But if I’m being honest, it still doesn’t feel like home.

Not completely.

There’s still a feeling of unfamiliarity that lingers in the background. Almost like I’m staying here instead of living here.

And maybe that’s because the old house wasn’t just a house.

It was the setting of an entire chapter of my life.

The laughter.

The arguments.

The celebrations.

The ordinary Tuesday nights that seemed so unimportant at the time.

All of those moments are attached to that place.

What I realized today is that sometimes grief isn’t just missing a person.

Sometimes it’s missing a version of yourself.

A version of your life.

A version of home.

The hard part is that I know I can’t go back. Even if I could walk through the front door of that house again, it wouldn’t be the same. The thing I miss most isn’t the building.

It’s the life that existed inside of it.

Maybe that’s why this new house still feels unfamiliar.

I’ve spent the last year learning how to survive here.

Learning how to be alone here.

Learning how to build a future I never wanted to have.

Maybe home isn’t created by paint colors, furniture, or home improvement projects.

Maybe home is created by time.

By memories.

By living.

And maybe I’m still in the process of building that.

Today reminded me that grief can show up in unexpected ways.

Sometimes it doesn’t say, “I miss my husband.”

Sometimes it says, “I miss my home.”

And somehow, that means exactly the same thing.