Be at Home (Wombat Wisdom for Busy Humans)
I have a soft spot for wombats. They’re sturdy, peaceful, unhurried little tanks with noses. If animals had life mottos, the wombat’s would be “Be at home.” Not just in a house—in yourself.
We spend so much of life sprinting for the next thing—next task, next badge, next person to impress—that we forget the quieter project: building a home base inside our own ribcage. The kind that doesn’t depend on postal codes, square footage, or whether your throw pillows match (they don’t, and that’s fine).
What “home” actually means
Home is that felt sense of “I’m safe to be me.” It’s a body that doesn’t need a performance review. It’s an inner room where you can take off the public face, put on your comfiest socks, and breathe like a human instead of a fax machine. No audition. No hustle. Just you.
Picture a grounded little wombat with a tiny crown—nothing flashy, just a quiet reminder that worth isn’t loud. True dignity doesn’t strut; it settles. It’s the calm confidence of “I belong here,” even if “here” is a Tuesday in sweatpants.
And if you like a visual: imagine that crown set with a green stone over your chest. That’s your heart energy—love, compassion, acceptance—lighting up like a subtle northern glow. Being at home begins there: opening your own door to yourself.
The wombat blueprint
Wombats are architects of comfort. They dig intricate burrows—safe, earthy sanctuaries to rest and reset. They’re not running around looking for permission; they’re building conditions for peace. There’s a lesson in that:
Security grows from within. Not from likes, titles, or anyone else’s approval.
Comfort is constructed. You create it on purpose—five minutes at a time.
Retreat isn’t avoidance. It’s how nervous systems recalibrate so you can come back to life with a steadier hand.
Where do you feel at home?
Is it a specific place—a chair that knows your shape, a walking path, a sunlit patch of floor? Or is it a feeling—the first hot sip of tea, the sound of rain, a book that makes you forget to check the time? Is it a person who sees you without subtitles?
Now for the tender bit: are there parts of you you’ve exiled to the metaphorical shed out back? The messy bits, the too-much, the not-enough? Being at home in yourself means letting those parts back in. You don’t have to seat them at the head of the table, but they do deserve a chair and a blanket. Wholeness beats perfection, every time.
Why inner home changes everything
When you feel at home in yourself, you carry belonging with you—into meetings, grocery queues, family dinners, and the ever-delightful news cycle. Other people’s opinions shake you less. Uncertainty rattles you less. You stop negotiating your worth with every new headline or group chat.
And underneath it all? There’s a bigger pattern—call it sacred geometry, call it plain old connectedness—holding you. You belong because you are. You don’t have to earn it. You just have to remember.
Build your burrow (micro-practices)
No renovations required. Think pocket-sized rituals you can repeat without fanfare:
The Home Breath (x3). Inhale for four, exhale for six. Shoulders drop, jaw unclenches, eyebrows return to factory settings.
Crown Check. Hand over your heart, say, “I’m safe to be me here.” (Yes, out loud. The dog won’t judge.)
The Chair That Knows You. Claim a nook: blanket, lamp, mug. Five minutes there = nervous system memo: this is home.
Boundary at the Door. Before you say yes, ask: “Will Future Me feel at home with this?” If not, “Thanks, but I don’t have capacity.” Polite. Clear. Done.
Grounding in 60 Seconds. Bare feet on the floor, touch a wall, notice five things you can see. Earth yourself like the sturdy marsupial you are.
Tiny Tidy, Tiny Calm. Clear one surface (keys-only tray counts). Physical order, mental exhale.
Homecoming Playlist. Three songs that make your insides soften. Press play when your brain starts sprinting laps.
Tea Ceremony (low drama). Kettle on. Both hands on the mug. First three sips = no phone, just steam and breath. (Add a biscuit if you’re feeling fancy.)
Welcoming the exiles (with humour and snacks)
Got a part of you that’s anxious, prickly, or overly enthusiastic at 2 a.m.? Invite it in kindly: “You’re loud because you’re scared. Have a seat. We’re safe. Also, here’s a granola bar.” Levity helps. Your inner critics deflate faster when you treat them like worried raccoons, not gods.
Rest is allowed (and necessary)
Being at home includes being still. You’re not a productivity appliance. Rest isn’t laziness; it’s maintenance. If your body says, “Couch. Blanket. Silence,” that’s not weakness. That’s wisdom.
If home feels far away
Sometimes you feel like you’ve misplaced the key. That’s okay. Home lives in small, repeatable acts—one breath, one chair, one honest sentence. You don’t have to feel zen to begin. Start with comfort, and belonging will catch up.
Try this right now:
Name one place in your body that feels even 2% more relaxed.
Name one thing in your environment that feels kind (soft scarf, warm light, the plant that refuses to die).
Name one thought that feels like a gentle hand on your shoulder: “I’m safe enough for the next five minutes.”
That’s a doorway. Step through.
A little love note to finish
You are enough as you are. You are worthy of rest. You don’t have to keep proving your right to take up space. Light the candle. Curl up with the blanket. Put on your favourite music. Read the paragraph. Stare out the window and let your brain idle, guilt-free.
Home isn’t always a place. It’s a feeling. It’s a knowing. And it starts with you—here, now, in this breath. Build your burrow. Wear your quiet crown. Be at home.