Blog Post Twenty Four - “Coming Home”
I never imagined I’d feel gratitude for the pain that brought me to my knees—but I do. A few weeks ago, my life shifted in an instant. I was diagnosed with colon diverticulitis and Crohn’s disease, and shortly after, underwent an invasive and physically punishing surgery. It was the kind of rupture that dismantles your sense of normalcy. My routines vanished. My diet was stripped to its bare essentials. My body—once instinctively mine—suddenly felt foreign, distant. For days, I moved through sterile hospital corridors tethered to a drainage tube linked directly to my colon, a reminder of the trauma unfolding inside me. Every motion, every breath, required conscious effort. The simplest acts—standing, eating, even resting—became deliberate negotiations between pain and resilience.
And yet, somewhere between the sterile white of the hospital room and the long hours of recovery, I felt something unexpected rise inside me: a quiet awakening. This wasn’t just a medical emergency. It was a divine interruption. One that urged me to reconsider not only my health, but my relationship with life itself.
Before this chapter, I equated freedom with momentum. I chased things—goals, answers, people, productivity. I moved fast, and I believed that meant I was moving forward. But healing taught me otherwise. Real freedom, I’ve come to learn, is peace. It’s the ability to say no. To protect your energy. To let go of what no longer serves—whether it’s toxic habits, relationships, or decisions born from fear rather than alignment.
There are a few truths I now hold close:
If it doesn’t serve me, it doesn’t belong in my life.
If it costs my peace, it’s too expensive.
If it requires me to abandon myself, it’s not love.
In that same spirit of clarity, I’ve also come to understand that home isn’t a destination. It’s a way of being. It’s the care I extend to myself, the gentleness I offer my body, and the stillness I’ve learned to embrace. Whether I’m in a hospital bed or walking by the ocean, I can carry home within me. Yet what’s surprised me most is how much I’ve come to love building a life that moves with me. I cherish the flexibility of doing life from anywhere and everywhere—constructing rituals and rhythms that feel right for me, even when everything else is uncertain. There’s a quiet power in learning to adapt, in discovering routine not as rigidity, but as a foundation I can create and recreate wherever I go.
This newfound flexibility has been liberating—especially for someone who once lived in a constant state of urgency. Before, I was consumed by it. I worried I was falling behind—constantly trying to catch up to some invisible standard of success. But I’ve let that go. I now trust the timing of my life. I’ve stopped forcing outcomes. I no longer chase; I receive. I align.
Letting go has made space for something more meaningful. There’s a quote I once read that said the purpose of life isn’t to find all the answers, but to live the questions. That has never felt truer. I’m not behind. I’m exactly where I’m meant to be. Even the past versions of me—who I might have once dismissed—deserve grace. They were not wrong; they were necessary. Stepping stones that led me back to myself and are still a part of me.
And further, this rebirth—if that’s what I can call it—is not about becoming someone new. It’s about remembering who I’ve always been beneath the noise: soft yet strong, grounded but still evolving. Deeply self-aware and in tune with my emotions, but not controlled by them. It’s about reclaiming my voice, my pace, and my place in the world.
Healing, as I’ve come to accept, isn’t linear. It’s a wonderful dance—some days are full of movement, others full of stillness. But I’ve stopped resisting both. I no longer muscle through the waves; I move with them. And in doing so, I’ve found strength in surrender. It feels light. It feels soft. Boundaries, too, have become part of my healing. I’ve learned that not everyone deserves access to me, and that choosing to protect my space isn’t selfish—it’s sacred.
This chapter began in pain, but it has become the most transformative breakthrough I’ve ever had. Not because I asked for it, but because it came uninvited and left me with something far more valuable than comfort: clarity. An invitation to slow down. To surrender. To rise.
If you’re in your own chapter of the unknown—recovering from illness, heartbreak, transition, or even the quiet grief of letting go—I see you. You are not broken. You are breaking open.
There is peace in not knowing. There is magic in starting again.
My soul knew it was time. Time to turn the page. In times like these, as Addison once said, it’s how it has to be—and I surrender to it, sweetly and without resistance. And while I’m still healing—still rediscovering my rhythm—I am alive. I am free. I am all of who I was, who I am, and who I’m becoming.
I am simply coming home to Sofia.
