Phoenix Diaries: The Chapter Where I Lost My House and Still Had to Figure Out the Washing Machine
What do you do when your sanctuary’s gone, your soul feels evicted, and your pants are still wet three cycles later?
Phoenix Diaries
Personal stories of transformation, heartbreak, and rebuilding from ground zero.
There was a time not that long ago when I had what many would call "a beautiful life."
Two cars are in the driveway. An RV for weekends away. Music is playing in the kitchen. The soft thud of a screen door closing behind you. A gorgeous home. A dog. A marriage. The picture.
Then it all unravelled.
Not in one clean tear, but slowly. The way string pulls apart when it's been fraying for too long.
My dog passed away. We sold the RV. I lost the marriage. I lost the house. I lost the sense of safety I had once wrapped myself in.
But what gutted me the most wasn't the loss. It was the defilement.
Home, for me, had always been sacred. A sanctuary. My sanctuary. My guilty pleasure was catching up with Coronation Street on a Sunday morning with a cup of tea and some toast. He'd be outside working in the yard. The home felt safe, comfortable, and well looked after. The place you retreat to when the world gets loud. A space where you can take off your bra and your armour and let it all go. The place where the world stops asking, and you stop performing.
So when he brought her into our home, our sanctuary, the betrayal wasn't emotional alone. It was physical, energetic, and deeply personal.
I remember telling him:
"You've broken us and you've defiled our space."
It felt like someone had broken in and rifled through everything sacred. Like I was walking through a house that looked the same, but where the air had changed. Like safety had slipped through the walls.
And then I left. The home. The town. The shared grocery stores and intersections. I couldn't be near him. I couldn't be near her. I couldn't breathe.
Since then, I've been without a home. Ten months and counting.
I've slept in hotels, on friends' couches, in borrowed guest rooms, and in co-living spaces across countries. I've stayed with my family. I've stayed with friends. I've lived out of carry-on bags in places that never really held me.
And it shook me.
At one point, I found myself trying to decipher a Spanish washing machine, wondering why my pants were still wet after three cycles.
My nervous system was on constant alert. My sleep shallow. My shoulders stayed curled inward, as if I were bracing for impact.
Because I've always had a home. Even as a child, even when things were hard, there was always a room. A bed. A space to call mine.
This year stripped that away. Not only the address. The groundedness.
And it made me ask: What is home, really?
Is it four walls and a key? Or something else?
I've been sitting with this question. Slow. Tender. Raw.
What if home is a state of being? A relationship to self? A sense of safety we learn to carry?
I know. It sounds like something from a Pinterest board. But hear me out.
I've learned two very real things:
1. I need my own space. Even if it's a single room. I'm an introvert. I need solitude. I need somewhere to recalibrate. To close the door and let the silence hold me.
2. Home isn't physical. Its presence. It's knowing yourself. It's returning to the parts of you that don't need permission to exist.
This year I've been on a journey. Not of reinvention but of remembering. Meditating. Studying astrology and human design. Talking to monks in Thailand. Strangers in Peru. Walking myself back to myself.
I've learned that you can live in a luxury loft and feel like a ghost. You can sleep on a friend's couch and feel entirely whole.
Because home isn't a postal code. It's the way you exhale when you're safe.
I'm still learning to build that feeling inside me. It's soft in some places. Sharp in others. It echoes. It expands. It changes daily.
It's not two cars and an RV anymore. It's the sound of water boiling in a chipped kettle. The weight of my journal on my lap. A room where the silence holds me instead of haunting me.
xo,
Tanya
What has “home” meant to you lately?
Is it a place? A person? A playlist?
Or maybe… whatever’s clean, quiet, and comes with decent Wi-Fi?
Reply or comment below and tell me, I’d love to know where you’re finding home these days.
Home has always been really important to me. Once I reached a certain age, it also meant no roommates, because like you, I’m an introvert. I’ve learned I can face just about anything out in the world, as long as I have a space that’s just mine to come back to.
I usually socialize outside my home, but the few people I invite in are the ones I consider family. My home is a reflection of who I am. It’s my sanctuary.
I downsized this year from 1700 to 700 square feet and I’m genuinely happy here. I’d even go smaller, as long as it’s me and my two doggies. My sanctuary has photos of loved ones, favorite travel memories, and lots of beach scenes. There are small mementos of family who’ve passed, like my grandfather’s plaid coffee mug, cracked handle and all. There’s a big believe sign in the living room, and "just breathe" by the kitchen sink. And always, a candle lit to keep my space warm and glowing.
That’s home for me.