“Where are you from?” I get asked this question at least three times a week. Despite living in New England for the last seven years, I apparently retain enough of my native North Carolina accent to stand out to Bostonians. After explaining my native roots to someone in the office recently they followed up, “Don’t you miss home?”

I assured them I was perfectly happy up North, and walked away. However, I couldn’t get that final question out of my mind. “Don’t you miss home?” No, honestly, I don’t. I miss people. I miss foods and smells and occasions, but I’ve never defined home by geography.

Home is that place where all your cells sigh, “Ahhh,” and you feel safe and comfortable. Home for me is a big pile of pillows in front of a fireplace with my husband beside me. Where that fireplace is doesn’t play into the equation. A look, or a touch, or even the sound of his laugh is home for me.

Early in our marriage we had to move several times: our initial home together as husband and wife, a new town for his graduate studies, a first job, a second job…each brought us to a new place where we made new friends and carved out a life together. While we’ve had five homes in our eighteen years (so far) of marriage, I’ve never felt like my home was anywhere other than where we were together.

Before someone responds with a remark about how our happiness cannot be tied solely to the existence of another person, I do not look to my spouse for all my contentment.

As an example, I find home in the kitchen as well. The appliances or layout might be different, but every time I pull a fresh baked apple pie out of the oven, I feel at home. I get that same sensation when I’m eating sausage gravy over biscuits, or listening to my children laugh while trying to steal another cookie from the cooling rack while they think I’m too distracted to notice.

The fact that it’s nearly Christmas probably has a lot to do with my sentimental reflections. I love to shut off all the lights in the house except those on the Christmas tree, and sit in a comfortable chair with soft music playing in the background and just think. My mother and I used to indulge like that together when I was growing up, and we’d talk about everything from the mundane of our days to the more complicated of our hope and dreams. Because of those treasured memories, it’s hard for me to see the twinkle of Christmas lights without thinking of her and feeling the comforts of my childhood home.

I believe contentment is an often overlooked state. It doesn’t have the same flash as joy or even sorrow, but when we come home, how wonderful to think of it as a place where we can be ourselves, comfortable with who we are, and who we aren’t. Happy in a single moment without want for more or the demand for less.

I’m not a New York Times Bestselling Author. I’m not the host of a cooking show on the Food network. I’m not Martha Stewart. But when I’m home, surrounded by my family, I’m the woman who makes up funny stories, and person that puts comfort food on the table for a meal that is more about the conversations around the table than the calories we’re consuming. I’m the person who cleans and straightens, but not obsessively so. Recognizing that who I am seems to be what my family and friends appreciates makes it easier to relax and be comfortable not trying to be someone else.

If I had a Christmas wish for my readers, it would be that you too would find that place where you are content…perfectly happy with what you have and not troubled with desires for things that cannot be. I would wish for you to experience that fully relaxed moment of contentment and the recognition that no matter where you are in that instant…you are home.

Happy Reading!