Well, well, well. Look who finally found the keys to her online diary. (Hi! I missed you too.)

Friends, it has been one hell of a ride since I last wrote. Do I even dare to recount the major milestones? I fear that if I start, I’ll quickly crank out a novel. That’s not why I’m here.

I’m here because there’s a new project on my plate. I think it might interest you.

Locating Home

Back in March, an editor friend at Comment Magazine asked me to write a piece for their issue centered around home.

“I really dig you and Steve’s story, and more the kind of wisdom you have to offer to so many who feel the tensions of being rooted and rootless. I really think you have a great vantage to help a lot of people (re)think what home is (and is not).”

Game on, I said.

I cracked into a new bottle of gin. I excavated thousands of words, story after story. I broke down in coffee shops. I had a panic attack at home. I saw my entire life in one loooonnnngggg arc.

Home is so damn complicated, especially for a woman who cannot afford to dwell near family in the city that raised her. My life is a parade of moving boxes.

The tension I experienced when contemplating home gained momentum thanks to various other confusing identities.

First, I’m an unofficial dual citizen. My father is Canadian. Mom’s entire family wears stars and stripes. I don’t carry a US passport (because details) but suffice it to say, I have two distinct cultural influences. In recent years, I have felt less at home in America. It is not the place I once knew. I’m sure you can connect the dots.

Second, I lived as an expat for five formative years. Scotland was the truest home I’ve known. Vancouver will always be my first love but St Andrews will always hold my heart. I have not returned since 2016. My husband will confirm that I unravel quickly when the subject arises. Even just this week, he returned from an academic conference in Leeds, England. While abroad, he shuffled north to St Andrews and visited our familiar haunts. He combed beaches, sipped flat whites, shuffled through our favourite bookshop. When he unpacked his suitcase, he presented me with a beautiful souvenir—this book wrapped perfectly in Topping & Co’s signature cellophane—and my tear ducts hit play immediately.

Finally, I spent a long, confusing season as an involuntary nomad. (See this quasi-press release and this expired update. You can also browse vInstagram for #thethesisishistory or #seasonofsweettea or #mindenmiracle). Our stint without a fixed address forged deep wrinkles in my spirit. A lot still needs ironing.

So when tasked to write about home, my thoughts quickly spiralled. Questions rained from above.

Which home? Place of origin? Place of belonging? Family home?

What about other homes? What about bodies, jobs, identities, hobbies, relationships, bookshelves, roles, and so forth?

What does it look like to settle? To declutter? To vacate? To renovate? To play host?

PEOPLE. It turns out I have A LOT to say on home. Making it, finding it, keeping it, building it, losing it, burning it, and learning to move along in time.

“Where shall I house these thoughts?” said my stubborn strategy-oriented perfectionist brain. (She drives me crazy.)

“Give them a proper home,” said my heart.

I’ve joked about how the internet is my living room and I’m just throwing one big dinner party, introducing friends, feasting on stories.

Well, gang. Now it’s official. I have a pixelated living room on Substack and I’m hosting guests! You’re invited. The project is called Pipeland Road. It bears the name of the street on which my beloved Scottish apartment stood. (It’s a whole story. You can read it here.)

Pipeland Road is where we’ll examine life as a quirky, inconvenient, and lively gathering space, full of potential for light and laughter, even when there’s mess everywhere and we cannot stay. 

Life promises no fixed address.

One could argue that the human experience boils down to relocating well. We move between “homes”—spaces, relationships, jobs, identities, ideas, bodies, and other places that offer rest.

It’s like we’re all renting space. We can’t stay forever and we can’t renovate our way to complete health and happiness. We must learn to make peace with the journey: gather our belongings, say our goodbyes, and move along.

The world likes to pitch the myth of absolute permanence and perfection. It’s easy to believe that life’s headaches will evaporate if our spaces are big enough and squeaky clean. Pay down the mortgage. Stay forever. “The perfect home is out there,” says the world. “Picket fence included.”

Except it’s not. Every home—every relationship, job, role, body—has its limits. And tenants can’t hire a bulldozer and start over. Womp, womp.

I have a few posts lined up before I broadcast the first proper newsletter. In true Elissa fashion, I am throwing the doors wide and inviting people in while I’m still in my bathrobe, literally and figuratively.

Your support means the world as I get this baby off the ground. Thank you to everyone who has patiently listened to long-winded voice memos, witnessed tears, laughed at my jokes, and helped me navigate the twisting wilderness called creativity.

I can’t wait to host you on a regular basis. I finally (FINALLY!!!!) have some routine childcare this September and, while it’s not much, it’s something. We’re in for a good time. Hope to see you on Substack!

P.S. If you’re interested, my 3600-word article for Comment went live today. It’s available here.