This Home Is Mine. And That Changes Everything

For the first time in my life, I’m sitting still long enough to really look at what I’ve built.

I’ve raised children.

I’ve taught for 28 years.

I’ve poured into students, families, classrooms, and communities.

I started a business.

I host a podcast.

I wrote a book.

I became a published author.

From the outside, it looks like a full life, and it is.

But here’s the realization that stopped me in my tracks: I have never had a home that was just for me.

Every place I’ve ever lived was built around who I needed to be for others.

This is for the kids.

This is so they can always come home.

This doesn’t have to be permanent.

This makes sense.

This is the responsible choice.

I didn’t choose homes based on how they made me feel. I chose them based on who I was trying to protect, support, and hold together. Even when I moved to North Carolina, when I made a bold decision to start over, I still chose a place with one thought leading the way: Make sure there’s room for the kids.

And don’t get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with that. It was loving. It was intentional. It was who I was at the time. But two years later, something shifted.

And this week, I moved.

Not to start over again. Not to prepare for someone else. Not to keep the door open “just in case.”

This place wasn’t picked with a future someone in mind.

No compromises for hypothetical preferences.

No designing around a maybe.

I moved into my first place that exists solely because I wanted it.

And that changes everything.

The Quiet Ways We Put Ourselves Last

Many of us don’t realize how often we delay choosing ourselves. Not because we’re weak, but because we’re conditioned.

We’re caregivers. Providers. Teachers. Parents. The strong one. We’re the ones who think ahead, fill the gaps, and make sure everyone else is comfortable--sometimes before they even know they need it.

We pack the snacks. We schedule the appointments. We buy the bigger place “just in case.”We choose the practical option because it makes life easier for everyone else.

And somehow, without ever making a formal decision, our comfort becomes optional.

We don’t call it self-abandonment. We call it love. We call it responsibility. We call it being “low maintenance” or “easygoing” or “the one who doesn’t need much.”

(It’s amazing how convincing we can be.)

But those choices don’t disappear; they stack. Year after year. Home after home. Role after role.

Until one day you wake up and realize you’ve built a life that runs smoothly, looks impressive, and functions beautifully…

…for everyone but you.

And it hits you: You’ve spent years making sure life works, but you’ve never stopped to ask how it actually feels to live it.

What a Home Really Represents

A home isn’t just walls and square footage.

A home is permission.

Permission to take up space—without apologizing for it.

Permission to design a life that reflects who you are now, not who you used to be or who you were needed to be.

Permission to stop living in preparation mode and start living in presence.

When I first moved to North Carolina, the mountains held me. They didn’t ask anything of me. They didn’t rush me. They didn’t need me to perform or explain.

They just existed—steady, grounded, unchanged by my unraveling and rebuilding.

In many ways, the mountains helped me find myself again. They taught me how to breathe more slowly. How to listen. How to stand still without guilt.

And now, years later, my view tells the full story. The same mountains that healed me are framed by French doors in my living room. Not as an escape. Not as something I drive toward when I need clarity. But as a reminder, I wake up to every day.

This home doesn’t need to be ready for anyone else’s return. It doesn’t need a backup plan. It doesn’t need to make sense to anyone but me.

I look around and feel something unfamiliar, and deeply grounding:

Ownership. Not of a property, but of my life.

Every choice here reflects my season, my healing, my values. The quiet. The light. The stillness that feels earned. This space was chosen, not inherited, not compromised, not postponed. It doesn’t hold who I used to be. It holds who I am becoming.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t build a home to support a version of myself that was surviving.

I built one for the woman who is finally living. Living for HER!

Why This Matters to My Work and My Brand

My work has always been about asking one question:

Why not me?

Why not my healing? Why not my growth? Why not my joy, my peace, my becoming? My Shift?

I help others break cycles, reclaim worth, and step into lives that feel aligned instead of performed.

But this move reminded me of something important:

We don’t just teach what we know; we model what we choose.

This home is not a retreat from responsibility. It’s a declaration that self-honoring doesn’t end when the kids grow up. That reinvention doesn’t have an expiration date. That choosing yourself can be quiet, grounded, and deeply sacred.

Sitting Here, Knowing This Was for Me

Tonight, I’m sitting in my home. Not rushing. Not explaining. Not preparing.

Just being.

And for the first time, there is no version of me I’m waiting to become before I’m allowed to enjoy what I’ve built.

This wasn’t about square footage. It was about self-permission. It was about closing a chapter marked by survival and opening one shaped by intention.

This home doesn’t say look how far I’ve come.

It says: I am allowed to live a life that fits me now.

If you’re reading this and feeling that quiet tug—the one that whispers maybe it’s time, I want you to know something: You don’t have to justify wanting more alignment. You don’t have to earn the right to choose yourself. And it’s not selfish to finally build something that feels like home.

Sometimes the bravest thing we do isn’t starting over.

It’s finally stopping, and letting ourselves arrive.

And now, for the first time, I’m not just building a life that works, I’m open to sharing it.

Not from need.

Not from loneliness.

But from readiness.

Because I don’t just deserve a home. I deserve connection. I deserve a partnership. I deserve to share mornings, conversations, laughter, and growth with someone beyond the role of parent or provider.

I didn’t lose myself in the years it took to get here; I found her.

And from this grounded place, with my feet planted and my heart open, I’m ready to see what’s next.

I am home. And I’m finally living a life that’s ready to be shared.

Becky Shaffer/Author/Speaker/Educator/Podcast Host

www.liveinconfidence.com