Nights When the Moon Knew Too Much

It was about a year ago.
My daughter had just fallen asleep in our shared bedroom — the only furnished room in the house apart from the kitchen. The rest of the house stood empty, silent, like a canvas yet to be painted.

I slipped out quietly, across the terrace into the garden, feeling a restless pulse inside me. I couldn't sleep. It was as though every possible human emotion had crowded into my chest all at once — joy and sorrow, peace and despair, strength and weakness, hope and hopelessness. They collided and mingled, a storm and a lull at the same time. My heart, my soul, my mind — none of them would quiet down.

I was in a foreign land, yet never had I felt closer to home. The cold, rough concrete under me was grounding. I sat on a solitary block, no chair, no table, no distractions, just the night sky and my own breath. And above me, the stars scattered like spilled salt across velvet, the northern lights bending and weaving like liquid silk. The sight stole my breath, reshaping the world in a way words cannot capture.

It was exactly what I needed: a pause, a chance to stand still, to simply exist. For once, no problem demanded my attention. No fear, no looming challenge, no urgent task. I wasn't the woman fighting tirelessly for a future that felt impossibly distant. I was just me — fully present, breathing in the cold night air, letting it settle in my lungs and in my bones.

I remember thinking that the moon must have known too much that night. It knew every fear I had tried to hide, every joy I had almost forgotten, every crack in my armor. And yet it shone anyway, gentle and patient, as if to say: "It's all right. You are allowed to simply be."

Time stretched, folded, and rewound around me. I watched the lights, felt the silence, and realized that life could be vast and intimate at the same time. That the enormity of the world and the intimacy of a single moment could exist together — and that was enough. That was more than enough.

Almost a year has passed since that night. Since those nights.
And now, I can say it without hesitation: I am truly home.
I am happy.
I am in love.
I am at peace.
I am alive.

But here is the twist — and perhaps the secret the moon knew all along: home isn't just a place. Home is a moment, a feeling, a breath of clarity in the middle of chaos. And sometimes, it finds you in the quiet hours, sitting on a concrete block in an empty garden, looking at lights that are older than memory.

And in those nights, the moon still knows too much.