Home is where the twinkle lights are.
This past week we went on our annual camping trip, marking my fortieth year camping at the Frio in Concan, Texas. A big pack of us go every year—family, and friends who are family—and we splash in the water, watch the stars, get dirty, and share stories from the past year. We each call this place our second home. As we unpacked and hugged each other hello, I heard more than one person say, “we are home.” Including my own kids, which made my mama heart swell 10x its size.
So we began setting up our camps. Side note: we used to tent camp for the week, and now we’ve graduated to RVs. Glamping, if you will. What’s fun to observe—especially for yours truly, who can geek all the way out over the creation of place—is how everyone has their own way of making a home away from home. Some brought flags, others mementos from past years. There were mascots, flowers, outdoor rocking chairs (yes, they exist and yes, they are sweet), and outdoor rugs that let everyone and the universe know: this is home for the week.
You could see everyone’s unique style and even their values in the way they organized and decorated their spaces. For me? It’s twinkle lights. Twinkle lights are my favorite way to set the vibe for camp. I’ve loved them since I was a kid at my best friend’s house—her mom would hang up twinkle lights year-round. Some were seasonal, others were staples, like the string of jalapeño lights in the kitchen. They were magical. They were wanderful (misspelling intended). And they were the perfect mood lighting—even then.
Now, I use them in my home to lift the energy, set the tone, and let’s be real—avoid tripping in the middle of the night. (That subconscious stress? It’s real and wrecks your cortisol more than you think.)
Camping brings out the inner child in all of us. It’s like building a fort for the week—our secret hideout. In the book House As a Mirror of Self, Clare Cooper Marcus writes about how, from a young age, children carve out places to make their own—secret corners in closets, little hideouts in the park. A place where they can explore identity and feel in control. That’s the magic of a fort.
So watching a group of grownups set up their “forts” for the week? Pretty special.
The first night, we all gathered under the stars to catch up. There was a low chance of storms, so we watched the thunder and lightning roll in. Then it got close enough that we called it a night. “Low chance of storms” my ass. It rained for 12 straight hours—like someone turned on the tub and forgot about it. The river became a monster you could only see in lightning flashes. By 7 a.m., I was packing the car and the twinkle lights to evacuate camp. Our home away from home was getting taken apart less than 24 hours later.
If I could’ve left Concan, I would’ve. Recent flooding in the Hill Country was still very fresh in my mind, and more rain was on the way. But there was no way out. All the roads were under water. We were stuck.
Long story short, the owners let us stay in a cabin on higher ground, and by the next afternoon, we were able to move back into our original site. No one was harmed. No RVs floated down the Frio. All in all, we were incredibly lucky.
So what did we do? We moved back in. Everyone started unloading food and belongings, rolling out rugs, draping tables, hanging flags—and yep—twinkle lights. We didn’t have to do it all over again. But we did.
Because home is a feeling. A house or an RV is just a structure. It’s the people, the memories, the grit, the stories, and the safety that make something feel like home. A campground can be home if you feel connected to it. A river can be sacred. Our homes come to life when we surround ourselves with the people and things we love. When we feel grateful for our shelter. When we’re in relationship with our environment—whether that’s a house in a neighborhood or a tent on a campsite.
As cheesy as it sounds, home is where the heart is. (That’s from a movie, right?)
So now I’m curious:
What are your twinkle lights? What makes you feel at home?
