The Shape My Joy Takes V: A House Made Of Yes

This is a collection of essays not about surviving—but about living. Not about pain—but about presence. These are not reactionary—they are revolutionary in their refusal to look back.

This is a 10-part series of personal essays. Check back each day to read the next essay.

Want more softness, strength, and quiet joy? Click here to read the full Shape My Joy Takes series.

I do not live in a house made of should.

I did once. It was brittle and cold, held together with obligation and dimmed light. The walls were lined with framed expectations, crooked and heavy. The air smelled faintly of sacrifice, and I kept the windows closed—afraid too much air might undo the structure. I whispered in that house. I tiptoed. I waited for permission. I kept the lights low, even when I needed brightness most.

But I do not live there anymore.

Now, I live in a house made of yes.

Not the kind of yes that folds to avoid conflict. Not the yes that smiles through gritted teeth or shrinks to stay invited. My yes is not compliant.

It is holy.

It lives in the slow mornings and the soft clothes.
It lives in the second cup of coffee sipped without urgency.
It lives in the dog asleep on the couch, in the books piled beside the bed, in the candle burning just because.

I built this house from the ground up.
I chose the colour of the light.
I chose the sound of the silence.
I chose every brick, every beam, every boundary.

It is made of yes to joy.
Yes to rest.
Yes to saying no without a footnote.
Yes to people who clap when I rise.
Yes to friendships that don’t sting.
Yes to unlearning, unbecoming, unburdening.

Yes to taking up space in a world that once asked me to vanish.
Yes to coming home to myself.

Here, in this house, I do not explain my absence.
I do not translate my peace into a language someone else can approve of.
I do not hold my breath to keep the room comfortable.

Here, I breathe.
I exhale.
I expand.

There are plants that bloom in every room.
There is music that plays even when no one is dancing.
There is laughter tucked into corners like spare blankets.

This is not a house built to impress.
It is not curated for performance.
It is not clean all the time.
But it is honest. It is alive. It is mine.

And maybe the most beautiful thing is this:
no one who doesn’t belong here stays.
Not because I asked them to leave—
but because they cannot survive in a house built on yes when they only ever brought no.

I built this house with open hands.
With soft strength.
With a voice that no longer trembles.

And every day I wake up here, I remember—
it is not perfect.
It is not finished.
But it is safe.
And it is free.
And it is home.