Mark: The biggest mistake we make in love isn't choosing the wrong person. It's building our home in them. We hand over the keys, the deed, everything... and then act surprised when we find ourselves emotionally homeless. Today, we're talking about taking back the blueprints. Michelle: Wow. That is a painfully accurate image. The idea that you're not just giving someone your heart, you're giving them your address, your shelter. And when they leave, you're not just heartbroken, you're out on the street. Mark: Exactly. And that feeling of being emotionally unhoused is the central idea in Najwa Zebian's powerful book, Welcome Home: A Guide to Building a Home for Your Soul. For her, this isn't just a clever metaphor. She literally lost her home, moving to Canada as a sixteen-year-old refugee during the 2006 Lebanon War. That search for belonging is the heart of this work. Michelle: Okay, that completely reframes it. This isn't just poetic self-help. She's writing from a place of profound, real-world displacement. When she talks about finding a 'home,' she knows exactly what it means to be without one. Mark: Precisely. The book is her answer to a question that haunted her: if you can't rely on a place, or a person, for your safety and sense of self, where do you build it? Her answer is that you have to become the architect, the builder, and the occupant of a home inside yourself. Michelle: I love that. It’s a radical shift in responsibility. But it also sounds… incredibly difficult. Where do you even begin construction on something like that?

Mark: Well, the first step is understanding why the old way of building is so flawed. Zebian argues that relying on others creates a state of 'inner homelessness,' and she illustrates this with a story that is just brutally honest. It’s about a man named Noah. Michelle: I feel like we all have a 'Noah' story somewhere in our past. Mark: I think you're right. In her story, she'd been texting with him, feeling a connection grow. She was actively trying to be more expressive, more complimentary, hoping to make him feel secure. One morning, he calls her, which is unusual. She’s hopeful, but her gut is telling her something is off. Michelle: Oh, I know that feeling. The hope-versus-dread cocktail. It’s the worst. Mark: It is. They chat casually, and then in a moment of silence, she expresses her hope that her compliments are reminding him of his value. And that's when he drops the bomb. He just says, "We should no longer talk." He’s not ready for something serious. And then he hangs up. Michelle: Oh, that is a gut punch. The sheer coldness of it. It’s the kind of rejection that feels like a verdict on your entire being. Mark: That’s exactly how she felt. Shock, abandonment, a deep sense of worthlessness. But when she talked to her therapist, the real insight emerged. The therapist helped her realize that the intense pain wasn't really about Noah. He was just the trigger. The real wound was much, much older. Michelle: So what was the original wound? Mark: She flashes back to when she was eight or nine years old. It was the night before Eid, the big Muslim celebration. Her parents were away, and she was staying at her aunt's house. Her aunt gathered her own children to go downstairs for 'our family time,' but told Najwa to stay put. Michelle: Oh no. She was excluded. Mark: Completely. She sat alone upstairs, listening to her cousins laughing and opening presents. She describes this deep, aching longing for the love and warmth she could hear but couldn't be a part of. She didn't have the words for it then, but she knew she was missing something essential. That experience planted a seed in her: the belief that she wasn't quite worthy of belonging. Michelle: That is heartbreaking. And it makes so much sense. It’s like Noah didn't build the wound, he just happened to stumble upon a button that was installed in her childhood and pressed it. Mark: That’s a perfect way to put it. Her reaction to Noah wasn't about him; it was the eight-year-old girl being left out of the family celebration all over again. This is what she means by building your home in other people. She had given Noah the power to validate her, to make her feel like she belonged. When he withdrew, he didn't just end a potential relationship; he metaphorically kicked her out of her own home, leaving her feeling as lost and alone as she did on that Eid night. Michelle: And the book argues that we all do this to some extent? We look for that feeling of 'home' in a partner, a job, a friend group, and when that external thing changes, our entire sense of self collapses. Mark: Exactly. Zebian’s core argument is that you can’t keep handing over the blueprints and the keys to other people. You have to build the foundation on your own land, within yourself. And that means doing the hard work of furnishing the rooms.

Michelle: Okay, so if we accept we need to build this house inside ourselves, where do we even start? The book talks about different 'rooms,' and some of them sound incredibly difficult to build. Let's talk about forgiveness. That feels like a room most of us keep locked and boarded up. Mark: It’s definitely one of the most challenging. And Zebian’s perspective on it is really powerful because she reframes it completely. She says, "Forgiveness is not at all about the person who hurt you. Forgiveness is about you." It's not about letting them off the hook; it's about letting yourself off their hook. Michelle: But that’s the hardest part, isn't it? It feels like you're saying what they did was okay. How do you forgive without feeling like you're letting them win? Mark: By understanding a crucial distinction. Zebian has this incredible line: "Someone can’t be the pain and the cure at the same time." You cannot seek healing from the person or system that broke you. To do so is to give them continued power over your well-being. Michelle: You’re waiting for the arsonist to come back and help you rebuild. Mark: Precisely. She shares a devastating story from her professional life. She had reported an incident of harassment by a man in a position of power. Initially, her female superior was supportive and empathetic. But over time, that support vanished. Michelle: I have a bad feeling about this. Mark: In a final meeting, the superior, with total indifference, told her she just needed to put the incident behind her and move on. In that moment, Zebian felt completely betrayed and invalidated. The system she had trusted to protect her was now telling her to silence her own pain for its convenience. Michelle: That's infuriating. To be told your pain is an inconvenience. Mark: And that was the turning point. She realized she could wait forever for an apology or for justice from that system, but it would never come. The healing had to happen under her own roof, not theirs. Forgiveness, in this context, wasn't about the harasser or her superior. It was about her taking back the power and saying, "Your actions will no longer determine my emotional state. I am releasing the pain you caused, not because you deserve it, but because I deserve to be free from it." Michelle: Okay, I see. It’s an act of self-liberation. You’re cutting the cord. But what about the people who are still in your life? Family, for instance. You can't always just walk away. This brings me to another tricky room: compassion. How do you have compassion without becoming a doormat? Mark: This is where the metaphor gets even more practical. If forgiveness is about cleaning out the toxic mold from inside your house, compassion is about building strong fences and a solid front door. It’s about setting boundaries. Michelle: So it’s not just about being nice. Mark: Not at all. It’s about self-respect. She tells a story about attending a family dinner after she had started showing a bit of her hair, a step away from her traditional hijab. An aunt, in front of everyone, made a shaming comment, asking, "So, are you happy with yourself now?" Michelle: Oh, the passive-aggressive family dinner special. A classic. Mark: A classic. And in the past, Zebian would have shrunk, tried to please, or just endured the discomfort. But this time, having done the work on her own inner home, she looked her aunt in the eye and said, firmly, "Yes, I am." She set a boundary. She didn't yell, she didn't argue. She simply stated her truth and refused to let her aunt's judgment trespass onto her property. Michelle: I love that. The boundary wasn't about changing her aunt; it was about protecting herself. It’s like saying, "You can have your opinion over there, on your lawn, but it's not welcome inside my house." Mark: That is the essence of it. Compassion for others becomes possible without resentment only when you have self-compassion first. And self-compassion means honoring your own value enough to build those boundaries. You welcome people into your life selectively, you decide what behavior is acceptable, and you protect the peace you've worked so hard to build inside. Michelle: It’s a complete reversal. We think of these qualities—forgiveness, compassion—as soft skills, as things we give away. But Zebian is framing them as structural components for our own survival and well-being. They are the load-bearing walls. Mark: Exactly. They are not gifts for others. They are essential building materials for your own home.

Michelle: This whole metaphor is so powerful because it’s so active. It’s not about waiting to feel better. It’s about picking up a hammer, drawing up blueprints, and actually building something. Mark: And it’s a lifelong project. That's the final, crucial piece. You don't just build the house and you're done. Life happens. Storms come. A window might break, a pipe might burst. Healing is a continuous process of renovation and maintenance. The goal isn't to build an impenetrable fortress to keep the world out. It's to build a place where you can be vulnerable and safe with yourself, no matter what’s happening outside. Michelle: It really makes you think about all the small ways we still hand over the keys to our home every day. A passive-aggressive comment from a coworker ruins your afternoon. A dismissive text from a friend makes you question your worth. We're constantly letting other people redecorate our inner space. Mark: We are. And while the book has received some criticism from readers for being very personal and perhaps not deeply researched from a clinical perspective, I think that’s missing the point. Its power comes from the raw honesty of Zebian's lived experience. She’s not just a theorist; she’s a survivor who is handing you the tools that worked for her. Michelle: It feels more like a memoir that teaches, rather than a textbook that preaches. So, for someone listening who feels that sense of 'inner homelessness' right now, what's one small, first step they could take? One brick they could lay? Mark: Zebian offers many small, practical exercises. One of the most profound is an anchor she suggests for building your foundation. It’s a simple question to ask yourself in a quiet moment: "Without the labels, who am I?" Not a mother, not a CEO, not a partner, not an artist. Strip away all the roles you play for others. What’s left? Michelle: That sounds… terrifyingly quiet. Mark: It can be. But in that quiet, you might just hear the sound of your own voice for the first time. And that’s the voice of the person who’s been waiting for you to finally come home. Mark: This is Aibrary, signing off.