I wanted to be an astronomer when I was a little girl. I had a nightstand full of books about the stars, and I would spend all night just staring at the moon. Something about space reminded me that, even though I was just one tiny person in this giant universe, being small didn’t mean being insignificant.

Though I still fall asleep with a map of the stars next to my bed, my soul felt an acute pull towards the beauty that lies within the human story, even those that are filled with sorrow and grief.

I am someone who experiences what author Susan Cain calls the bittersweet: “the recognition that light and dark, birth and death—bitter and sweet—are forever paired.”

I have lived most of my days vacillating within this emotional spectrum, navigating the liminal space between joy and sorrow, holding on and letting go, breaking apart and becoming anew.

All the while, being reminded that the moon is always whole, even as it goes through phases.

Ultimately, this same space led me to an integration of clinical training and human connection, believing that while there is work that only we can do in this life, we never have to do it alone.

We, too, are the stars.