My body was a house.

And I didn’t leave.

I didn’t disappear from it. I didn’t throw it away. I didn’t go searching for a brand new one like nothing ever happened.

Because most people, when their house gets damaged, don’t immediately abandon it. They try to fix it. They try to repair what was broken. They go above and beyond to restore what they still recognize as theirs. Not because the damage didn’t matter—but because ownership still matters. Familiarity still matters. That house still belongs to them.

That’s what survival feels like to me.

Not perfection. Not untouched. Not unchanged.

But still mine.

Even after what happened, I stayed in my body. Even when it didn’t feel safe. Even when it didn’t feel the same. Even when something tried to make me feel like I no longer had rights to it.

I didn’t become someone else’s property. I didn’t become unlivable. I didn’t become abandoned.

I became a house that needed care.

And the truth is, after damage, a house doesn’t always look the same right away. Some rooms feel different. Some doors don’t close the way they used to. Some windows let in light differently than before. And sometimes you walk through it and remember what happened there—and that memory can shake you.

But it is still a house.

Still standing.

Still owned.

And over time, repair becomes a form of reclamation. Not erasing what happened, but refusing to let what happened define the entire structure. Repainting. Reinforcing. Relearning where safety feels like safety again.

I used to think healing meant becoming brand new.

Now I understand it more like restoration.

Not pretending the damage never happened—but deciding that damage does not cancel ownership.

This body is still my home.

And I am still learning how to live in it again.