issue #9: i've left my heart in a hundred places

For LA. Because love is the answer, at least for most of the questions in my heart

I used to think home was one place, a solitary structure that carried the memories and nostalgia of the lives it held inside. That was all I ever wanted. One place. A place to remember. A place to come back to. A place to call home.

Instead, I’ve left my heart in a hundred places.

On the shores of New Jersey. On the streets of Philadelphia. On the banks of the East River and the corners of Gramercy. Along the Miami River, on the cobblestones of Cambridge, in the hallowed halls of Soldier Field. On the rain-soaked mountains of Washington, in the grassy parks of South Jersey. In every apartment and house, in all the sidewalks and backyard paths. On the hardwood hallways and the chilly basements and cozy kitchens. On all of the drafty, chilly, tear-soaked windowsills. In every single library.

In LA. On the rocky cliffside of Malibu. In the parks and the walkways, in the sun-soaked spaces under the trees. In the water and the heat, in the breeze and the mountains. In the valley, in the clouds, in the sky. In the seats at SoFi. On the sandy shores, in every found shell, in all of the joy. In all of the goodbyes.

My heart. It’s been ripped into tiny pieces and scattered along as I make my way from home to home, toting books and toys and three fresh tiny hearts who rip alongside mine. As the days turn to nights, the nights turn to weeks, and the years move on, we leave one home for another, and with every little rip, every painful tear, it regrows like the arm of a starfish, ready to love again. Once more. Open, in spite of its heartbreak and heartbreak and heartbreak, willing to love again.

It’s true what they say. Home is where your heart is. And mine is everywhere. It’s in every place I’ve ever loved. Every place I’ve left behind. The tears of my struggle and sorrow soaked into its earth, the echoes of my laughter living wildly in its wind. The memories, filled with joy and grief and everything in between, invisibily etched into its very makeup.

Every home carries me. I carry every home.

I used to think home was one place. I used to think love was too. That there is a finite amount of both, reserved for the one thing, only one thing, in its clutch. I know better now. I know so much more.

New Jersey taught me that. So did Philadelphia. And New York City. And Miami and Boston. Chicago taught me that. And Seattle. And Jersey again.

And Los Angeles.

As the flames whip wildly around LA, licking its buildings and beaches and leaving fear and loss and devastation its wake, it continues to teach me. Because now I know how much a heart can hurt for a home that is 3000 miles away. How every ripped piece of a broken heart left scattered around the country can still ache as if it’s still in you.

Home isn’t always where we live, but it is always where we love.

And what can we do when it burns but just continue to love. Love harder, love better, love more.

We can just love more.

Join me in loving more. I’ll be donating to the Los Angeles Fire Department Foundation to support wildfire emergency relief efforts and World Central Kitchen to help provide meals to affected SoCal communities and will match up to $1000 reader donations for each organization. Just reply to this email or DM me with your receipt. If you’re not able share financially, just share your love. It counts.

I write these letters about motherhood as personhood because I hope these thoughts are in some way not only my own. When I put these out, it makes me feel a little less alone and I hope it does the same for you. If you like this letter, you can forward it to a friend, share it on social, or leave a comment to tell me what you think. Thanks for being here. I appreciate you.