Each night I lay beside Octave in her bed, and I tell her a story from my life. There was a season when she wanted wild abstract stories of elephants and sharks, rainbows and candy canes, but now she is four and she begs for my own stories. "No, no, no," she laughs, and points at my nose, " I want you. You you YOU...your life story!" She somehow gets what life is all about. Maybe all little people do. She longs for my stories all day long and then she devours them whole, letting them digest into her dreams at night. Tonight I told her one of my favorite stories, of holding hands with her "aunties," in the middle of union square, screaming at the top of our lungs, celebrating the completion of our dance program. I was flooded with so many memories from that season of life. A season where it appeared all my dreams were alive or coming true, but I could not shake a deep ache and longing for something more. That search for more, it followed me and I thought maybe it would never leave me, maybe it's just our human condition, I thought. But tonight as I shared another layer from life, my heart swelled, and tears filled my eyes. I realized I haven't felt that quiet longing, that persistent distant ache, since the moment I met her, and then her sister. There was always a space for them, always. There was nothing wrong before, but I think maybe my heart was preparing itself, years before its time. I just had no idea it was them.