By 
There are days when life refuses to negotiate with you. Days when the walls of your own home feel too tight, too loud, too heavy for your heart.
That night,I remember it clearly-was one of them.
The argument wasn’t supposed to explode.
It started with something small, as most storms do.
A forgotten errand. A misinterpreted tone. A long week catching up with both of us.
Before I knew it, voices were raised, doors were closing harder than usual, and my sanity was hanging by a thin, trembling thread.
By 11:27 pm, I was holding my car keys, not proudly, but in that defeated way you hold onto something because everything else is slipping from your hands.
I stepped outside.
The night air hit my face like a reminder “breathe.”
So I did.
And then I walked straight to the only place that felt like it wouldn’t judge me… my car.
I turned on the engine, not to drive anywhere in particular, but because I needed the hum. That gentle vibration that tells you something in your life is still functioning even when everything else seems to be falling apart.
I drove randomly through Bukoto, then Ntinda, then Kisaasi.
No music.
Just silence and the soft, reliable sound of the engine- my late-night therapist.
At some point, I found myself parked behind a closed supermarket. A quiet place where no one knew me, no one demanded anything from me, no one expected strength I didn’t have left.
And that’s when my car became my bedroom.
The seats, which I’d always used for comfort, turned into pillows for my frustrations.
The dashboard, usually home to my sunglasses and sanitizer, became a shelf for the thoughts I’d avoided all week.
The windscreen, fogging gently with my breath, became a mirror- not of my face, but of my truth.
I lay there, leaning the seat backward, staring at the ceiling of my car the way one stares at the sky searching for answers.
It’s funny how peaceful a car can feel when the world is loud.
As the minutes turned into hours, I thought about my childhood, about the homes I’d lived in and the ones I’d survived. Maybe that’s why, deep down, sleeping in the car didn’t scare me. I’d known worse. I’d slept in places that didn’t even have windows or locks.
A car-MY car- felt like luxury in comparison.
But beyond comfort, it gave me clarity.
That night taught me something I didn’t expect:
A home is not four walls.
A home is wherever you can finally hear yourself think.
Somewhere between 2:00 am and 3:00 am, I made a decision.
Not about the argument.
Not about winning or losing.
But about myself.
Sometimes walking away isn’t weakness- it’s maintenance.
The same way you park a car when it overheats so the engine doesn’t blow.
I was overheated.
I needed to cool down.
By sunrise, I wasn’t angry anymore. I was calm, grounded, and strangely grateful.
Sleeping in my car reminded me of who I am outside the noise.
It reminded me that peace is portable-you carry it in your heart, not your house.
I drove back home, not because I had to, but because I wanted to.
Not as someone defeated, but as someone who had reset.
And the door that closed the night before opened easily in the morning. Without shouting, without tension, without pride leading the way.
Sometimes the best place to find yourself…
is the place you run to when you’ve lost everything else.
Question.
Have you ever found peace in the most unexpected place?
Do share
