When I was little, my dad and I would read Carl Sagan’s Cosmos before bed and he’d explain to me that we all are, in fact, “star stuff.” I didn’t believe him until one night he held my arm up to the light and traced along seven of my freckles in the shape of the big dipper.
"See?" he said. "There’s the proof right there. You’re made up of billions and billions of tiny particles and elements that used to be stars and galaxies and nebulas."
And now sometimes I’ll trace those freckles in the same way whenever I’m feeling upset or overwhelmed or lonely to remind me that we are infinite.