Saturday mornings are sacred to a child: cartoons, pajamas, sugary cereals, and freedom! One of my favorite Saturday morning memories is waking up before everyone else, laying my mom’s Architectural Digest magazines across the floor, and building my dream home. I’d usually start with a big, beautiful living room and then search each magazine for the perfect kitchen, dining room, bathroom, and bedroom, to match. At seven-years-old, I may not have understood terms like “Rustic” or “French Country,” but I was pretty good at designing them.

Once my masterpiece was complete, I’d lay there on the living room floor, fantasizing about the wonderful life I would have in my own glorious space. I’d host family holidays surrounded by elaborate decorations, intimate dinner parties with sparkling stringed lights and elegant tablescapes, and spend rainy days, nestled in my Reading Nook, drinking hot chocolate. This was the life I was waiting for. This was the life I was going to have by the time I was twenty. Twenty is old when you’re seven. I wanted nothing more than to own my own home.

All these years later, I feel I owe that bright-eyed little girl so many apologies – or at least a consoling hug. In the 33 years since designing, dreaming, believing, I’ve had approximately three solid years of feeling as if I were “home.” Like that crazed little squirrel from Ice-Age, I know what I want, and I’m perfectly fine doing the work to get it, yet I continually watch it slip from my grasp. Eventually, home became a cruel and painful word to both hear and say.

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On Wednesday, February 6, 2019, I had my life mapped out before me. The day before, my realtor, Will, had shown me two beautiful properties that I would’ve happily called home. I was the executive pastry chef of a small catering company in my hometown of Cleveland, Ohio. It wasn’t the perfect job, by any means, but it was the best position I’d ever held and the most money I’d ever made. As I drove to work that morning, the anxiety and elation of becoming a first-time homeowner was overwhelming. Within the next hour or two, Will would be calling to find out which house I was putting an offer on. My whole world was about to change – my greatest dream was coming true!

At 9 a.m. sharp, I skipped through the parking lot, heading into work. I’m not a fan of the word ‘glee,’ but it successfully denotes my general feeling. As I stepped from the frigid air into the warmth of our downtown warehouse, my chef met me at the door with a less than enthusiastic greeting. He asked me into the meeting room, where our HR representative sat, stoically. Somehow it seemed colder in that room than it did out in the snow. To my surprise, I was given a short, emotionless speech thanking me for my time and letting me know that the company could no longer afford my salary… I was officially laid off.

I drove to the lake and sat, motionless, staring out into the water – numb. Truth is, I wasn’t upset about losing the job, but my pride had its own sentiments. I knew it wasn’t the right atmosphere for me; however, I’d never been “let go of” before. I couldn’t rationalize it; I worked hard, was creative, conscientious, and always tried to boost morale. How could I not be worth keeping?! I sat watching semi-frozen waves crash against the rocks until I looked at my phone and remembered the call—the call that was supposed to change my life – the call that was coming in mere minutes.

I may not have cared about losing a job with a mediocre company, but the thought of losing that beautiful house in Chardon, on almost two acres of land, was truly devastating. And how was I going to break this news to Will?! I couldn’t bear telling him that he’d wasted weeks of his time showing me home after home. That there would be no offer, no commission, no happy ending. Feeling myself being sucked into a vortex of despair, I drove across town to the one person I knew could help pull me out.

There are people who will sit with you through a crisis, and then there are those who will drop their own lives and crawl into your crisis with you so that you don’t feel alone – Mathew is the latter.

Mathew welcomed me in from the cold outside world with a big smile, a long hug, a warm breakfast, and coffee. I sat at the kitchen table, regurgitating my surreal morning while watching my food grow cold. As always, he listened intently and responded with genuine sympathy, love, and care. I’d come to the right place for comfort and support, but there were still no answers; I needed a what now. Mathew was just as stunned as I and, much like myself, never considered that my life would play out like a ‘Now ya see it; now ya don’t’ magician’s trick. The next steps, whatever they might be, seemed impossible. During a moment of reflective silence, the cell rang. My heart sank when it displayed my realtor’s name.

As I broke the news to Will, I expected to hear constrained frustration and disappointment in his voice. Instead, he did something beautifully unexpected; he stopped being my realtor and became a friend. After condolences and making sure that I was okay, he gave me one of the best pieces of advice I’ve ever received. It may sound simple, but he demanded that I “Take the day.” He told me to resist the urge to make a plan or figure anything out but to use the next 24 hours to focus solely on my emotional wellbeing. Tomorrow I would be stronger and prepared to hit the ground running in the light of a new day. But, not today. Today didn’t belong to the past and what I’d already lost, nor the future of what’s to come. It belonged to me and whatever I needed to be okay at this moment.

So, I spent the day crying to Mathew, eating Mitchell’s Homemade ice cream with my friend Chaunte, and spewing confused, bitter rantings at my poor friends. And yes, it was quite cathartic. The next day, when I was clearer and stronger – as Will promised – the plan came to me; it was time to leave Cleveland. There was no reason to stay. I couldn’t think of a single person, place, or thing to which I was physically or obligatorily tethered. Initially, I was saddened by this truth; I felt unnecessary in my life and among my tribe. But then I had a revelation: If I had no roots, nothing could stop me from sprouting wings. I’d never really been anywhere outside of Ohio’s bordering states, and this seemed like the perfect time to venture. Within three months, my life changed forever.

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Now I subscribe to my own magazines. I still spend free weekends flipping through House Beautiful and Better Homes & Gardens, building my most perfect space. Only the dreams are far more distant and blurry than before. While seven-year-old Nikita thought that hard work and altruism was some sort of magic key to unlock her dreams – forty-year-old Nikita does not. My desire for ‘home’ has never waned, yet my definition of the word is beginning to progress. I’ve spent so many years pining and working for a tangible edifice to call my own—a place with welcoming doors, always open to those who need shelter and safety and love. I failed to realize that I am that place. With my time, laugh, smile, arms, honesty, empathy, affection, compassion, and constant love, I can become a home for so many I adore, just as many have become home for me.

When the bottom fell out from beneath me, it wasn’t a cobblestone fireplace that gave me warmth or beautiful bamboo flooring that comforted me. It was the kindness of a hired professional who broke those boundaries and took the time to walk me out of my despair. It was Chaunte leaving work and taking me out for the best ice cream on earth. It was the compassion of Mathew who has yet to show anything less. It was knowing that I could cry and whine all day long, and he wouldn’t stop caring or become even slightly annoyed. It was the safety of being able to express all of my anger and disappointments without hesitation. When all was lost, I didn’t have a brick-and-mortar home to run to, but Mathew, Will, Chaunte, and several others, were shelters from my storm.

As I sadly prepare to move from my cute little house in San Jose, California, and into a tiny cottage in Los Altos Hills, I feel my old idea of ‘home’ slipping from me all over again, like that crazy little squirrel. But this time, for the first time, I’m trying to see the full picture instead of dwelling on the loss. Maybe having a big house filled with lots of stuff isn’t the blessing. Perhaps the real blessings are the people, places, and experiences we have along the way. Since growing wings, I’ve hiked through the Redwood forest, watched whales breach the surface off Monterey’s coast, sat and listened to the ethereal orchestra of the Pacific Ocean. I didn’t even take pictures; I just focused on being there, in those moments – and I was home.

This isn’t to say that I don’t crave a beautiful ranch house on two acres, with a gourmet kitchen, huge stone fireplace, hardwood fixtures, full of my favorite things, where I feel safe and comfy. To be honest, I’d sell my sister’s kidney for that! However, it isn’t lost on me that I have the power to create ‘home’ for others wherever I go. And I can allow those who love me to be my home, as well.

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So, to all of my 'Living Homes,' I want to say Thank You! To all who offer the glow of their warmth as a safe place from the darkness and pain of this world – Thank You! To those who listen as I empty myself of foreign emotional objects that seek to splinter my soul – Thank you! To those who've opened their doors to me, creating spaces so welcoming that I found respite when I was weary– Thank You! And to those whose arms served as a chrysalis, allowing me time to hide away until I was brave enough to emerge stronger than before – Thank You So Much!

You are Home to me.

*And to Mary Ann… you know why.