(gentle music) - Okay, I guess I wanna tell the entire world that I just turned 50.

Yes.

(Jeanie laughing) (audience clapping) Okay, well, in my 50 years of life, I have many jobs, and none of them had to do with talking about myself.

And I hav served food and I've been working at hospitals and in the military for 11 years, and now, of course, recently, out there in the community, helping people.

And today, I'm gonna share with you something that is very touching, and, but it's not only about me, it's about I believe that my story right here that I'm about to share touches many parents out there that have been, that are going through divorce and they have kids.

My parents are divorced, so I am a product of a divorced marriage.

And I will read it, because it will help me.

I don't know the whole thing.

I can, you know, and I will not sit down.

(Jeanie laughing) Okay, well, I've always taken a lot of pictures, more than most.

People used to joke that I was the unofficial family photographer, always capturing the smallest moments, half-eaten birthday cakes, tangled Christmas lights, a cousin's belly laugh caught mid snort.

But it wasn't just about the memories, it was insurance.

A way to hold on to places and people, because somehow, I always knew I wouldn't be staying long.

The first time I felt it, the readiness to leave, I was so young.

My parents had just told me they were getting divorced.

I sat in my room, clutching a Polaroid camera my dad had given me a year before, clicking pictures of my stuffed animals, lined neatly on my bed, thanks to my mom.

The posters of dolphins and the northern lights on the wall.

I always wanted to see the northern lights.

I still do.

The little window with pink curtains my mom sewed herself.

She was really good at that.

I took them all like I was cataloging evidence, proof that this place had once been mine.

After the split, I bounced between homes.

Holidays always felt like borrowed time.

My backpack was never fully unpacked.

My toothbrush had two homes, and my heart started learning how to live in a constant state of partial attachment.

Every place I lived felt temporary, like a hotel room I was quietly checking out of, even before I arrived.

My dad caught on eventually.

I was in my twenties, visiting for Christmas.

I hadn't said much, just wandering, just wandered the house, taking my usual dozens of photos, ham bread in the oven, the way the light hid the old family portrait above the piano.

My dad standing by the window, arms crossed.

That's when he said it, not unkindly, but with a kind of quiet sadness.

"Jeanie's getting ready to leave", he murmured.

"She's taking as many pictures as she can of everyone and everything."

He was right.

I was always halfway out the door, even when I was trying to stay.

And then, I met him.

The man who would become my husband came into my life like a soft tide.

No crashing waves, just a gentle and persistent pool.

He had a calm steadiness about him, the kind of presence that made you breathe a little easier without realizing why.

When we moved in together, the walls weren't just dry walls and paint.

They were ours.

We filled them.

We filled the spaces with mismatched furniture and shared playlists, Sunday morning pancakes and inside jokes.

We moved around quite a bit for his work.

Once, twice, more than I can count.

But through all the changes, I never felt displaced.

As long as were together, I felt rooted.

That was the first time in my life where the concept of home wasn't just a place, it was a person.

(paper rustling) Eventually, we settled in Hampton.

It wasn't where we expected to plant roots, but life has its own quiet way of choosing for you.

There was something about this city, the blend of calm and character, of history and salt air that made us slow down.

We bought a house, got dogs, built routines, watched the seasons change together.

I mean, we came from Florida.

What do you expect, huh?

(audience and Jeanie laughing) For a while, I felt like forever.

It felt like forever.

But as life has a way of doing, forever turned into for now.

We grew apart, not through drama or betrayal, just a slow silent unveiling that happens when two people stop growing in the same direction.

The laughter faded, the conversations grew shorter, and eventually, we both knew it was time.

We divorced.

No kids, thank God.

It should have felt like another ending, another chapter closed, another place to pack up and leave behind.

But this time, I didn't leave.

I stayed in Hampton.

I kept the house.

I kept the dogs, four of them.

I stayed, not because I didn't know where else to go, but because for the first time, this place didn't feel temporary.

It didn't feel like a hotel room or a pit stop.

It felt like mine.

There is a kind of stillness that settles over a home when it is just you and the dogs.

Not lonely, necessarily, just quieter.

I learned to feel that quiet with new things.

Walking the dogs along Buckroe Beach early in the morning, sipping coffee on the porch while the city slowly woke up.

I started noticing how the sky blushed over the water at sunrise, how the seagulls cried out like they were laughing at something only they understood.

Maybe just waiting for me to, friendship, hey, gimme some bread or something, I don't know.

Hampton wasn't just where I ended up.

It became part of me.

The city wrapped itself around me in small, loving ways.

Familiar faces at the farmer's market, the cozy little bookstore that always smelled like cinnamon and dust.

The corner field where employees knew my name.

I walk in and say, hello, Miss Belgrave or J Bel, that's how they know me.

This weren't grand gestures, but they mattered.

This city, this house, these dogs, somehow they anchor me in ways no other place ever had.

And yes, I still take pictures, but the urgency is gone.

I'm not trying to hold onto something before it slips away.

I'm not bracing for the next goodbye.

I take pictures now because I want to celebrate the ordinary, the way the sun streams through the living room window.

The goofy smile one of my dogs when he is rolling on the grass, the way Hampton Street glow gold in late afternoon.

These are my memories, and they aren't going anywhere.

(paper rustling) Sometimes I sit on my porch.

I think about the little girl with a Polaroid camera, the one who learned too early that things change.

People leave and places don't always last.

I want to tell her that it is okay, that eventually you'll find a place that feels like it's not asking you to leave, a place that says, (Jeanie crying) unpack your bags.

You're staying.

(Jeanie crying) And maybe it doesn't look like, like the dream you had as a child.

Maybe it doesn't come with picture-perfect love stories of a full house with people.

Maybe it's quieter, simpler, but stronger.

Now, when people ask if I ever think about moving again, I smile.

(Jeanie crying) I'm sorry.

I tell them I've moved enough in my lifetime.

I tell them that finally, I know what home feels like.

One second.

It's not the photos I take, it's not, is not even the memories.

It's the stillness in my chest when I walk through that front door of my house.

It's the sound of paws on hard wood floors, the smell of rain on the backyard patio, my eyes, the comfort of knowing the streets and the sounds of this city like second, my second heartbeat.

I am not getting ready to leave.

I am already home.

Thank you.