What It Means to Come Home

I work in real estate, so I use the word home every day.

I talk about finding one. Buying one. Selling one. Preparing one for market and handing over the keys to a new one. We talk about square footage and neighbourhoods, views and kitchens, pools and property values.

But after this August in the Okanagan, I don't think I'll ever use that word quite so casually again.

When our house filled up

Like so many people across our community, the wildfires touched our family in ways we weren't expecting.

When friends were evacuated from Westside Road, my husband Jamie and I opened our home to them. Suddenly, instead of the two of us and our dog, there were four adults and four dogs living under one roof.

And something interesting happened.

In the middle of something frightening and uncertain, we created this little temporary life together. We planned meals. We worked from our home offices. We watched the fire updates. We talked about what might happen next. The dogs settled into their own routines. We went to bed each night hoping tomorrow would bring better news.

At the same time, my brother had been evacuated from his home in Summerland. We loaded up our RV and took it to him so he'd have somewhere that felt at least a little bit like his own while he waited.

And we all waited.

And then they went home

Eventually, the news we'd been hoping for came. Our friends could go home. My brother could go home. Their houses were still there.

There was enormous relief.

And then something I wasn't expecting at all.

Our house felt empty. I missed our evacuees.

It sounds strange, because of course I wanted them to go home. That's what we'd all been hoping for from the moment they arrived. They have their life and we have ours. But for a little while, those lives had become one.

And when they packed up the dogs and their belongings and walked out our door to return to their own home, I realized there is something incredibly powerful about being able to say three simple words:

We're going home.

Because not everyone got to say them

One of Jamie's fishing buddies, who is also one of my brother's closest friends, lost his home in the fire.

I barely know him, and yet I find myself incredibly emotional thinking about what he and his family are facing. How do you begin to comprehend losing the place where your everyday life happened? The familiar things in the cupboards. The photographs. The furniture. The completely ordinary things you never imagined you'd have to miss.

This weekend, Jamie and I are giving them an extra refrigerator we have.

It isn't a grand gesture. It's a fridge.

But perhaps that's also what community looks like after something like this. You look around and you ask: What do I have that someone else needs?

Maybe it's a refrigerator. Maybe it's an RV. Maybe it's a spare bedroom, a meal, a place for someone's dog, a gift card, a truck, a pair of hands, or simply sitting with someone while they try to figure out what comes next.

We've watched that happen over and over again throughout the Okanagan in August. We've watched firefighters and first responders work under extraordinary circumstances. We've watched neighbours help neighbours, strangers help strangers, and entire communities rally around people whose lives changed in a matter of hours.

Recovery doesn't start when the order is lifted

That's the part I keep thinking about.

For those fortunate enough to return home, there's relief, but there's also the emotional aftermath of what almost happened. For those who lost their homes, the journey is only beginning. And for our local businesses, farms, wineries and tourism operators affected by evacuations and closures, the effects of this summer will carry on long after the smoke clears.

Now that August has come to an end, there's still something all of us can do.

Visit the communities that are ready to welcome us back. Buy the bottle of Okanagan wine. Stop at the fruit stand. Eat at the local restaurant. Shop at the small business. And when someone in our community is rebuilding, look around and ask what you might have to offer.

Because this month has reminded me that community isn't really something we talk about.

It's something we do.

And home? I still love beautiful houses. I'm still going to get excited about the kitchen, the view, the backyard and all the things that make a property special. That's part of what I love about my work.

But a house is something we can measure. We can calculate its square footage. We can assess its condition. We can compare it to another property and determine its market value.

Home is something else entirely.

Home is where your dogs know where to sleep. It's where you make dinner without thinking about where the frying pan is. It's where you work, argue, laugh, celebrate and live the completely unremarkable days that, taken together, become your life.

And sometimes, home is the door someone else opens for you until you can walk through your own again.

I have never been more grateful for ours.

And I don't think I'll ever hear the words we're going home quite the same way again.

If you're navigating a move, a rebuild, or just trying to figure out what your next chapter looks like after this summer, my door is open. No pressure, no agenda, just a conversation.