My Home


Growing up, my grandmother would tell me that the eyes are the window to the soul. That if you truly look into someone's eyes, you can see their entire agenda laid out exposed for the whole world to see. 

If that is the case, then my soul is emerald green. It has a plethora of flowers growing through sidewalk cracks and raindrops occasionally dripping down the windowsill. The wind blows ever so lightly, making the lashes acting as branches on the outside wave around and sometimes scrape against themselves.

The side of my home has polka-dots- freckles, angel kisses, a little extra touch. It has long, bright red curtains that drape past the cream-colored walls aligned with scars and full of stories. The bridge in the middle I was always self-conscious about. I believe the architect meant for it to be a slope, a slide for good times. A deep-down, belly-laughing good time.

The road to reach the windows into my home is long and skinny. Sometimes “too” skinny, sometimes “not skinny enough,” but always exactly how it was meant to be. There are two hills outside of the driveway, perfectly shaped like they are meant to be, a constant reminder that I am female- fragile yet fierce.

The door to get inside is magical, a world unto itself. The door knocks, usually 60-100 times every single minute- allowing me to know that everything is still going to be okay. A reassuring and breathtaking world full of love, hope, positivity, and faith, along with everything and everyone I have ever cared for.

The person inside of my home is finally learning to love herself. She is a fighter, and she is determined. She is learning that body shaming is not the answer, and that when we stand together, we are so much stronger than if we stand apart. 

Society tried planting me in the ground, but they had no idea that I was a seed destined to grow.

Written by Logan Johnson