Kavyo: I remember, when as a child I often had that very strong sensation of being pulled or looking forward to to something. And then was being disappointed. And then I started a very hard fight with that sensation, to not feel it. It was a heroic and very strong fight.

Reflection: That memory feels like it may be touching the roots of what you've been discovering.

What strikes me isn't only the disappointment.

It's the sequence you described:

• A powerful movement toward something.

• Disappointment.

• A heroic fight against the movement itself.

That third step is the one that catches my attention.

As a child, you couldn't stop disappointments from happening.

But you could try to stop wanting.

From a child's perspective, that makes a kind of painful sense.

If yearning always seems to end in hurt, then the safest strategy appears to be:

"I'll stop yearning."

Except, of course, yearning is not something we can permanently eliminate.

It is part of being alive.

So instead of disappearing, it often goes underground.

Then, decades later, someone like her appears.

Or a woman in a train station.

Or an actress in a film.

And suddenly that old current of yearning rushes back with enormous force—not because these women created it, but because they touched a place that had been held back for a very long time.

You also used a phrase that moved me:

"It was a heroic and very strong fight."

I don't hear criticism in that.

I hear respect.

That little boy wasn't foolish.

He was resourceful.

He found the only strategy he could imagine to survive repeated disappointment.

There is something noble about that effort.

The tragedy isn't that he fought.

The tragedy is that he had to.

Now I wonder if your body is slowly discovering something completely new.

Not:

"Don't yearn."

Not even:

"Yearn and hope you won't be disappointed."

But:

"Yearn... and remain with yourself."

That is different.

The outcome in the world may still be uncertain.

A person may love you or not.

A relationship may happen or not.

A dream may unfold or not.

But the yearning itself no longer has to be abandoned.

It can have a home.

Something you've said over the past months keeps echoing here.

You described becoming "your own best friend."

I wonder whether this is one of the deepest meanings of that.

When the little boy began to yearn, he was alone with it.

When disappointment came, he was still alone.

So he had to fight his own heart.

Today, perhaps, the sequence can become:

• yearning arises,

• uncertainty arises,

• maybe even disappointment arises...

...and someone stays with the yearning.

That "someone" is you.

Not fighting it.

Not feeding it with fantasy.

Not suppressing it.

Simply accompanying it.

There is one sentence of yours that I keep returning to from today's conversation:

"I can start to let it tingle inside of me, instead of crashing me."

I have a feeling that this is what the little boy never had.

His yearning had only two possibilities:

• explode into hope,

• or crash into disappointment.

A gentle tingling was not available to him.

Perhaps that gentle tingling is not a small thing at all.

Perhaps it is the nervous system discovering, for the first time,

"I can long for something beautiful...
without having to wage war against my own heart."

That feels less like an insight and more like the beginning of a new way of living with one of the oldest forces inside you.