On Home Journal Entry #1

Food for Thought. Wine for Wonder.

On Home

 

Home.

 

Such a simple word…

yet it has been everything and anything to me.

 

Growing up, home was comfort.

Safety. Family. Security.

 

Then life happened.

 

As a teenager, home became a place to pass through—

a stop between sports, school, jobs, and friends.

Just somewhere to sleep and eat before the next moment began.

 

Then came apartments. Rentals. Shared spaces.

Places where I brought my things…

but never fully brought myself.

 

My first home as a married woman felt like the beginning of everything.

Small, imperfect… but ours.

Until it wasn’t.

 

That home became a place of tears.

Of loss. Of failure.

And when I left, I left it all behind—

because some walls don’t hold love…

they hold pain.

 

Then came a different kind of home.

One that was mine.

 

It was independence.

Healing.

Fear… and strength learning to coexist.

 

It was where I learned to mow the lawn, fix what broke,

and stand on my own in ways I never had before.

It became a place where friends gathered,

where laughter lived,

where people who needed somewhere to land… found it.

 

But life shifted again.

 

I sold that home for love.

Or what I believed love to be.

 

And in doing so…

I didn’t just sell a house.

I lost myself.

 

That next “home” was not safety.

It was fear.

It was walking on eggshells.

It was becoming someone I didn’t recognize.

 

From the outside, it looked perfect.

But inside… it was something else entirely.

 

And one day—

I left.

 

I didn’t have a home again.

Not in the traditional sense.

 

Home became a couch.

A borrowed room.

A space above a garage.

A place I stayed temporarily… while I rebuilt something permanent inside myself.

 

Some nights, after work, I didn’t even know which direction to drive.

Because home… was nowhere and everywhere all at once.

 

But slowly—

I found my way back.

 

About eight years ago, home became mine again.

Four blocks from the place I once let go.

 

It started with a letter.

A family who saw me… heard me… and chose me.

 

That home wasn’t filled with things—

it was built with pieces of a life being put back together.

 

Furniture donated.

Treasures found in alleys.

Fragments that became something whole again.

 

That home wasn’t just walls.

It was freedom.

It was peace.

It was my quiet, defiant “I’m still here.”

And then…

 

Just a few blocks away—

I found him.

 

Brad.

 

We met right before the world shut down.

And in a time when everything felt uncertain,

we became each other’s certainty.

 

Our homes became places of refuge,

of safety,

of understanding.

 

And eventually, we realized—

home wasn’t either house.

 

Home was us.

 

For the past four years, I’ve lived in his house…

but it was never about the space.

It was about him.

 

And now…

we begin again.

 

A new home.

Ours.

 

A place where both of our stories come together—

where old pieces and new beginnings live side by side.

 

For the past two and a half years,

I’ve driven 45 minutes to an hour every single day to the restaurant.

People asked why I didn’t move closer.

 

But home isn’t that simple.

 

Minneapolis…

that’s where our roots are.

Our childhood.

Our people.

Our history.

 

You don’t just leave that behind.

Not when it helped shape who you are.

 

But now, the timing is right.

 

We’re moving to Watertown.

 

Closer to the restaurant.

Closer to the life we’re building together.

 

And here’s what I know now—

 

Home isn’t an address.

 

It’s not a house.

It’s not things.

 

Home is where your nervous system softens.

Where you don’t have to perform.

Where your heart can exhale.

 

Home is where you are known.

Where you are safe.

Where love exists without effort.

 

Home is where you gather—

to eat, to drink, to laugh, to cry.

 

It’s where memories are made honestly.

Not perfectly… but truthfully.

 

It’s bridal showers.

Baby showers.

Birthdays.

Funerals.

Quiet dinners and loud celebrations.

 

It’s holding someone’s hand in grief.

 

And raising a glass in joy.

 

It’s connection.

 

And in many ways…

 

Molly’s has become home too.

 

Because I see you—

my guests, my team—

more than I see my own family some days.

 

We share life inside those walls.

 

And that…

that is what home is.

 

For me now—

 

Home is where Brad is.

Where my dog is.

Where my heart is free.

 

Home is where I get to be fully, unapologetically… me.

 

And I can’t wait to build this next chapter—

together.

 

— Chef Molly

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