Lost is a label given by those who do not understand the journey. But what if I was never lost—only unfolding, only remembering, only taking the long way back to myself?
The world tried to name me: lost, abandoned, displaced. But I was never any of those things. I was always in motion, always moving toward the truth that was waiting for me to be ready to see it.
Home was never a place. Never a name, a document, or a history I could trace on paper. Home was the moment I stopped searching outside of myself for belonging. The breath I took when I finally knew: I was never missing. I was never incomplete.
I was never lost. I was only ever finding my way home. And home? Home was never behind me. It was inside me all along, calling me forward to my highest self.