There was once a massive, aging airliner that had been in the sky for decades. It was built in a time when flying was simple. Thrust. Direction. Control. The captains were trained in what they called the old way. Keep the nose level. Ignore the turbulence. Never let the passengers see fear. Integrity, to them, meant silence and a firm grip on the controls. The flight attendants were responsible for everything else. The panicking passengers. The flickering oxygen masks. The emotional weight that builds in a cabin when people feel powerless and scared. Then one day, the plane entered a storm no one had trained for. The old autopilot shut off. The rules everyone relied on stopped working. The plane didn’t need more force anymore. It needed recalibration. The captains felt their authority slipping. And because they had never been taught how to name danger without feeling like they had failed at leadership, they tightened their grip instead. Admitting the plane was shaking felt like an identity collapse they didn’t have language for. So some of them raised their voices. Blamed faulty instruments. Blamed the weight in the cabin. Controlled the story, because they didn’t know how to sit inside uncertainty without losing themselves. In the back of the plane, something different was happening. The flight attendants understood that if the cabin destabilized, the plane would follow. So they stood in the aisle during the shaking. They learned how to hold truth in one hand and reassurance in the other. Not minimizing the danger. Not amplifying it. Just staying present. They weren’t better people. They were the ones who had to live inside the consequences. Their integrity became practical. It stopped being about appearance and became about function. About impact. Eventually, a new kind of pilot emerged. One who could see that the manual wasn’t wrong, it was incomplete. The real leaders weren’t the ones pretending the storm wasn’t happening. They were the ones who left the cockpit, sat in the aisle, and said,

There’s another side to this story that doesn’t get talked about as gently. Sometimes, instead of holding the truth quietly, one parent or ex spouse does the opposite. They tell their version loudly. Repeatedly. To friends. Family. Coworkers. New partners. Even the children. They share details that don’t belong to the audience. They frame themselves as the victim and the other as the villain. They recruit people into their pain. And from the outside, it can look convincing. This behavior rarely comes from strength. It usually comes from fear. Fear of losing control of the narrative. Fear of being seen clearly. Fear of sitting alone with their own accountability. Fear of the truth being told. For some, tearing the other person down is a way to regulate their nervous system. It’s quick damage control. If everyone agrees with them, they feel safer. If everyone is angry at you, they don’t have to feel their own guilt, shame, or grief. That doesn’t make it okay. But it does make it human. Why people do this Some are trying to protect their ego. Some are trying to justify their actions to themselves. Some feel abandoned and want others to feel their pain too. Some have never learned how to process conflict privately or with integrity. And some genuinely believe their story will protect them. Can there be forgiveness for this kind of behavior? Sometimes. But forgiveness does not mean access. Forgiveness is an internal process. Boundaries are an external requirement. You can understand why someone does this without allowing them to continue harming you or innocent people. Forgiveness may come after accountability. After behavior changes. After time. And sometimes, forgiveness looks like emotional neutrality not reconciliation. If you choose not to retaliate Not retaliating does not mean doing nothing. It means choosing containment over chaos. It can look like: • Speaking the truth only to those who can hold it responsibly • Correcting misinformation once, calmly, and then disengaging

There’s a particular kind of loneliness that comes with this. When the story floating around isn’t accurate. When people assume. When anger lands on you because you’re the only one standing there. And the truth exists but telling it would fracture relationships damage your children’s world or permanently alter how people see your ex. So you’re left with questions no one prepares you for. Do you tell the truth even if it hurts others? Do you stay quiet and let people be angry at you? Do you absorb their disappointment, confusion, and blame because protecting others feels more important than being understood? Do you walk alone in the truth? There isn’t one right answer. This is an individual experience. And it deserves nuance. Speaking up has its pros. You reclaim your narrative. You stop carrying accusations that aren’t yours. For example explaining that the marriage ended because of emotional harm, addiction, or repeated betrayal can help others understand that the decision wasn’t impulsive or selfish. Speaking up can bring relief. Validation. Support you may desperately need during a fragile time. And sometimes, telling the truth prevents future harm by naming patterns that others might otherwise miss. But speaking up has real costs. Truth can damage children’s sense of safety. It can permanently alter family dynamics. It can force people to choose sides when they are not ready or equipped to hold complexity. For example sharing details about abuse or infidelity may mean your children lose respect for a parent before they are emotionally able to process that reality. It can also turn your healing into public discourse. Your pain becomes something people debate. Analyze. Retell. And that can be retraumatizing. Choosing silence has its own pros. You protect your children’s emotional world. You allow others to maintain relationships without being burdened by adult truths they cannot hold responsibly. You keep your healing private. Sacred. Out of the hands of people who may not handle it with care.

What most people are calling “home” isn’t a place at all. It’s a state. When we’re young, especially in moments when things were stable, predictable, or at least familiar, our nervous systems learned what calm felt like. There were rhythms. Routines. People or environments we could count on. Even if childhood wasn’t perfect, there were often pockets where our bodies knew how to exhale. Then we grow up. Life speeds up. Responsibilities stack. Relationships get complicated. The world feels louder, harsher, less forgiving. And suddenly people find themselves saying things like: “I just want to go home.” “I miss how things used to feel.” “I want a life that feels simple again.” “I’m homesick… but I don’t know for what.” And here’s the reframe: They’re not longing for their childhood. They’re not even longing for their parents or their old house. They’re longing for a regulated nervous system. They’re craving the feeling of: • Safety without effort • Predictability without control • Rest without guilt • Belonging without performance So when someone says, “I crave a home I’ve never been to,” That actually makes perfect sense. They’re describing a place their body recognizes, even if their life has never provided it consistently. A place where their nervous system would finally soften. Where they wouldn’t be bracing. Where they wouldn’t be scanning for danger, rejection, or the next thing to manage. That’s why this longing shows up so strongly during overwhelm, burnout, grief, or big life transitions. When the system is overloaded, it doesn’t ask for solutions. It asks for regulation. The beautiful part is this: That “home” isn’t lost. And it isn’t behind you. It’s something you can build internally and externally, piece by piece, as an adult. Through: • Environments that feel safe instead of stimulating • Relationships that feel steady instead of chaotic • Routines that ground instead of pressure • Learning how to calm your own body without needing escape