Cherishing the perfection in his imperfections.
The Thing I Look Forward to Most
I spend a lot of time thinking about my future husband.
It’s the kind of thing you do when you know he’s coming and you’re writing a book about cherishing men.
I think about him often. Not in a vague, wistful way. I mean I genuinely contemplate him — his character, his faith, his presence, the particular quality of his laugh. I have a sense of who he is even before I’ve met him, the way you can sometimes feel a storm coming before the sky changes color.
And here’s the thing I find genuinely funny about myself: one of the things I look forward to most is discovering all the strange, endearing, occasionally maddening little things that make him uniquely himself.
Not his résumé. Not his attributes. Not the checklist version of him.
Him.
Maybe the way he makes coffee. Whether he hums while he reads. Or maybe it’s something weird he does with his hands when he’s thinking. A habit he has absolutely no awareness of. The opinion he holds with baffling intensity. The corner of his personality that will take me years to fully understand.
This, to me, is not a concession. It’s not settling. It’s not a lowering of expectations.
It is the actual destination of my cherishing him.
Because somewhere in the process of thinking about love — really thinking about it, not the Instagram version, not the romance novel version, not the self-help checklist version — I realized something that surprised me:
The flaws are as big a part of the gift as any other part of him.
Not all flaws of course. Not harmful behavior. Not being unkind dressed up as quirks. I want to be precise about this from the beginning, because this chapter is not a permission slip for poor treatment.
But the ordinary, human, unmistakably personal imperfections of a good man? The ones that belong to him the way his voice belongs to him and his history belongs to him? Those, I genuinely look forward to.
And I’ve been trying to understand why.
Why would a person look forward to another person’s flaws? Why would an intelligent woman — someone who has spent decades studying and trying to understand all the nuances of love and relationships — why would she list quirks and repetitions and odd habits among the things she anticipates with actual delight?
The answer, I’ve come to believe, has everything to do with the difference between loving an ideal and loving a person. Between evaluation and cherishing. Between a checklist obvious good qualities and the living human being.
Let me try to explain.
The Difference Between Loving an Ideal and Loving a Person
Most of us begin our romantic lives in love with an idea.
We have a picture in our minds. A composite. An amalgam of every romantic influence we’ve ever absorbed — films, stories, parents’ marriages, early crushes, cultural mythology. We carry this picture with us into adult life, and we hold it up against the actual men we encounter, comparing, measuring, evaluating.
Does he match the image? Does he measure up?
This is not a character flaw. It’s developmental. It’s how human beings begin to understand what they want — by holding experience up against imagination and seeing where the gaps are. The problem is not that we have ideals. The problem is when we get stuck there, when we keep trying to love the image rather than the person standing in front of us.
Falling in love with an ideal is, in a strange way, the safest possible option. Ideals don’t disappoint. They don’t have annoying habits. They don’t tell the same story three times. They don’t have complicated relationships with their families or inexplicable opinions about the right way to load a dishwasher. Ideals remain permanently attractive because they exist only in the imagination, where we curate them carefully, editing out everything inconvenient.
Real men are something else entirely.
Real men arrive with histories. With contradictions. With Saturday morning moods and Thursday evening exhaustion. With the particular way they go silent when they’re hurt. With the coffee they make too strong or too weak, the music they insist on during road trips, the topic that unfailingly derails them for forty-five minutes at dinner parties.
Real men are, in the most literal sense, particular. They are specific. They are this man, not a man. They cannot be exchanged for another model with better features, because there is no other model. There is only him, with all the impossible specificity of a human soul.
The transition from loving an ideal to loving a person is one of the most significant — and most underappreciated — movements in any relationship.
It is the movement from: Does he measure up? To: Who is he?
From assessment to curiosity. From evaluation to discovery. From holding a man up against an internal standard to leaning in closer to understand the actual territory of him.
This is where love stops being a project and starts being a relationship. And this transition is also where something remarkable begins to happen to imperfections.
Because when you stop measuring a man against an image and start encountering him as a person — a specific, irreplaceable, fully human person — the entire framework of flaw begins to shift. What once appeared as a gap between the ideal and the real starts appearing as simply… him. Evidence of him. The texture of him.
This is not lowered standards. This is a fundamentally different orientation toward a human being.
When Evaluation Becomes Cherishing
There is a particular moment in love that I think of as the pivot.
You may have experienced it yourself, or you may be waiting for it. It happens somewhere in the middle distance of a relationship, after the initial electricity has settled into something more sustainable, after you’ve seen him in enough different contexts to understand who he actually is — not who he presented himself as, not who he is on his best behavior, but who he is when he’s tired and when he’s worried and when he’s completely, unselfconsciously himself.
At some point, something shifts. Early love evaluates. It cannot help it. Evaluation is the mode of early love, the way diagnosis is the mode of early medicine. You’re taking in information. You’re building a picture. You’re asking, constantly, consciously or not: Is this good? Is this acceptable? Is this what I want? Is this attractive? Is this annoying?
This is not cynical. It’s necessary. Evaluation is how we determine whether to move forward, how we protect ourselves, how we make choices. It serves a real function. But deep love — mature love, seasoned love, the kind of love that has had time to settle into someone — eventually makes a turn that evaluation can never quite complete. It turns toward cherishing.
Cherishing does not ask: Is this acceptable?
Cherishing asks: Isn’t he something?
Cherishing does not wonder: Is this annoying?
Cherishing thinks: Isn’t that just like him.
This is not willful blindness. Cherishing does not pretend things aren’t happening. A woman who deeply loves her husband knows perfectly well that he leaves his socks on the bathroom floor. She is not confused about this. She has not misperceived the socks. She sees the socks with perfect clarity. But when you love someone deeply, your perception of the socks is no longer just a perception of socks. It is a perception of him. Of the specific, familiar, irreplaceable person who has been leaving his socks there for years. The socks have become, improbably, part of the evidence of his presence. And his presence — his — has become the thing she loves.
Cherishing is what happens when the person becomes more real to you than any ideal you were carrying. When your internal image of perfection gets quietly eclipsed by the actual man, with his actual habits, in all his actual humanity. This is not something you can manufacture or will into existence. It happens as a consequence of the kind of love that has had time to root. But when it happens — when you feel that pivot, when evaluation quietly steps aside and cherishing moves in — something genuinely astonishing occurs. Imperfections become adorable. And that, to most of the modern world, sounds crazy. So let me try to explain why it isn’t.
The Strange Transformation of Flaws
Here is what has not changed: The flaw. Here is what has changed: The observer.
This is the part that trips people up, because we are accustomed to thinking about imperfections as objective features of reality — things that exist independently of how we relate to them. A flaw is a flaw. A habit is a habit. A tendency is a tendency. These things exist in the world, and we respond to them accordingly. But love, it turns out, does something extraordinary to perception.
Consider the story he tells too often. Every person who has been in a long relationship knows this story. It is the story that comes out at a certain kind of dinner, or after a certain number of glasses of wine, or whenever a certain topic arises. You have heard this story so many times that you could deliver it yourself, complete with the gestures and the pause before the punchline.
Early in a relationship, the repetition registers as a mild deficiency. A small demerit. He doesn’t realize he’s told this story. You might even mention it, gently, diplomatically.
Years in, something different happens. You hear the story begin and you feel — what is this, exactly? It is not annoyance, or not only annoyance. It is something warmer and more complex. There is a tenderness in it. Because the story is not just a story anymore. It is his story, the particular way he processes and shares experience, the anecdote his mind returns to because it meant something to him. The repetition, which once felt like a deficiency, now feels like intimacy. You know his stories. You know which stories. You know the pause before the punchline.
This is not delusion. You have not become confused about reality. You have simply begun to experience his particular humanity as precious. The same transformation happens with strange habits — the ritual he has before bed that makes no logical sense but is completely consistent, the way he always reads the last page of a book first, the inexplicable system he has for organizing his desk that looks like chaos to everyone else and apparently works for him, the specific mug that must be used for the specific morning coffee or something is cosmically wrong. Habits that, in the abstract, would read as quirks or oddities become, in the specific, something almost endearing in their consistency. They are the map of him. The fingerprint. They are how you know it’s him and not anyone else.
The Evidence of the Person
Let me tell you what I think is actually happening here, because I want to get this exactly right. Love does not merely cherish the person. Love begins cherishing the evidence of the person.
Think about what happens when someone you love deeply is absent. Travel, illness, loss — whatever the reason, when they are gone, the things that seemed ordinary become unbearable in their ordinariness. The coffee mug sitting where he left it. The book still open to the page he was reading. The jacket on the hook by the door. Suddenly, these objects are not objects. They are evidence. They are traces. They are him, rendered in physical form, proof that he was here and is real and belongs in this space.
The woman who lost her husband does not find his old cardigan irritating. She wears it. Not because cardigans are inherently precious. Because he is precious, and this cardigan is evidence of him. Now here is what love does in the presence of the beloved rather than in his absence: It begins relating to the quirks and habits and imperfections the way a bereft widow relates to an old cardigan. Not with grief — I am not suggesting a relationship should feel like mourning — but with that same orientation of evidence. Of treasured particular proof that this specific person, this irreplaceable soul, is real and present and here.
When he does that thing — you know the thing — and you feel that familiar, fond, exasperated tenderness that is almost impossible to describe, what you are experiencing is the recognition of evidence. That is his laugh. That is his way of entering a room. That is the expression he makes when he’s about to say something he thinks is very clever. That is the gesture that belongs only to him.
Every quirk is a fingerprint. Every habit is a piece of vocabulary in the private language of knowing someone deeply. Every imperfection is a point of contact between who he is and who you know him to be.
This is why long-married couples are sometimes observed to find each other genuinely funny when no one else does. It’s not that they have inferior taste. It’s that the jokes are landing in an entirely different context. The joke is not just a joke. The joke is him — his timing, his particular sensibility, the specific corner of his mind that finds this funny. And that person, that mind, that corner — that’s what she’s laughing at. She’s laughing with love, which is a completely different laugh from the one strangers produce.
This is also why people grieve not just the person but the habits. The absence of the specific morning sound. The chair that no longer has anyone in it. The particular way the house feels without his specific energy moving through it. We grieve the evidence because the evidence was, in its way, the person. It was how we touched them, over and over, in ordinary days. Which means that love, in some deep sense, transforms the ordinary into the sacred.
Not by pretending it is sacred. Not by performing sacredness at ordinary objects. But by genuinely experiencing them through the lens of love for the specific person they represent.
The laugh that woke you from a dead sleep becomes one of your favorite sounds in the world. The habit you once thought you would never tolerate becomes part of the landscape you’d give anything to keep. The story you’ve heard a hundred times is something you’d happily hear again. Not because you’ve lost your mind. Because you’ve found him.
This Is Not About Perfection
I want to stop here and be clear about something, because this chapter could be misread, and I refuse to let it be. We live in a cultural moment that is deeply confused about perfection.
On one side, there is the perfection-seeking culture — the endless list, the non-negotiables, the spreadsheet of required attributes, the elimination of any man who does not check every box at every moment. This culture produces loneliness, because no human being can sustain the pressure of being a candidate rather than a person.
On the other side — and this is the misreading I want to prevent — there is the opposite error: the idea that love means accepting everything, that cherishing someone requires tolerating harm, that a woman who truly loves a man will overlook behavior that damages her or the relationship. This chapter is not about that.
The distinction that matters here is between ordinary imperfections and genuinely harmful behavior, and I want to draw that line clearly, even briefly, before moving on.
Ordinary imperfections are the texture of being human. They are the quirks and habits and tendencies and repetitions that belong to someone’s personality, that hurt no one, that are inconvenient or amusing or occasionally exasperating, and that are simply part of what it means to be this person rather than a theoretical perfect person. Every human being alive has them. Every good man has them. They are not character deficits. They are evidence of humanity.
Genuinely harmful behavior is something else: patterns that damage trust, diminish dignity, ignore repeated reasonable requests, involve deception, cruelty, or contempt. These are not charming quirks. These are not endearing imperfections. These are not evidence of the beloved. These require attention, conversation, and — when necessary — serious decisions.
This chapter is about the first category, not the second.
The goal of love is not finding a flawless man. There is no flawless man. The goal is finding a good man — a man of character, integrity, genuine warmth, and honest effort — and then loving him with enough depth and generosity that his humanity becomes something you treasure rather than merely tolerate.
These are very different destinations.
Tolerating implies ongoing discomfort, a gritted-teeth endurance of something unpleasant. Treasuring implies genuine delight, the kind of warm recognition you feel when something familiar and beloved appears again.
The woman who tolerates her husband’s habits is in a different relationship than the woman who treasures them.
Both women are with imperfect men. Only one of them has arrived at love.
Why His Flaws Can Actually Increase His Value
Here is what I think is one of the most counterintuitive insights about love, and I want to build to it carefully because it deserves the space.
Most of us have been taught — implicitly or explicitly — that flaws reduce value. The logic seems airtight: perfection is the ideal, deviation from perfection is a deficit, more deficits mean less value. This is how we think about products. About résumés. About houses and cars and investments. We have imported this logic into relationships, where it is causing enormous damage. Because in love — real love, deep love, the kind of love that has had time to become fully itself — the math works differently.
Some imperfections do not reduce value. Some imperfections increase it. Not because imperfections are better than their absence. Not because flaws are some hidden virtue in disguise. But because they reveal more of him. They give you more of him to love. They expand the territory.
Think about it this way. A man who presents only his strengths — carefully curated, perfectly managed, consistently impressive — is giving you something, but it is a limited thing. He is giving you the highlight reel. And a highlight reel, however impressive, is not a person. It is a performance.
The man who lets you see his quirks, his anxieties, his repeating stories, his irrational preferences, his small stubborn habits — this man is giving you himself. The unedited version. The lived-in, specific, genuinely human version. And that version, in its fullness and particularity, is more than the highlight reel could ever be. In this sense, imperfections are access. They are the parts of the door that have been opened further. They are additional rooms in a house you are learning. They are not deductions from the architecture. They are the architecture.
There is also another dimension to this. Shared imperfections — the habits she knows, the quirks she recognizes, the tendencies she can predict — are evidence of intimacy. They are proof that you know him, really know him, in the specific way that only comes from time and attention and presence. The woman who can finish his sentence is not doing so because she’s heard it too many times. She’s doing it because she has inhabited him, the way you inhabit a home until you know every sound it makes.
His imperfections, over time, become part of how she knows him. And how she knows him is how she loves him. Remove the imperfections and you remove some of what makes the love specific. You create a more theoretically impressive object, but a less personal one. Less his. Less hers.
I will put it this way: A woman who loves a good man is not diminished by his imperfections. She is enlarged by them. Because they give her more of him to love.
And more of him to love is not a reduction. It is an abundance.
Oh Boy, Here He Goes Again
Let us pause here for a moment of honesty. Because everything I’ve been saying is true, and I stand by it completely, and also — love is funny.
Specifically, the beloved’s particular tendencies are frequently funny. Not in a mean way. In the way of deep familiarity, where you are so comfortable with a person that their consistent humanity becomes a running comedy of recognition.
You know what I’m talking about. The thing he does with his keys before he leaves — the very specific ritual, the pocket check, the second pocket check, the pause by the door for the third check — that has never once resulted in lost keys, and yet occurs with the solemnity of a man who has never once not lost his keys.
The way he explains things you already know. Not condescendingly — he genuinely wants you to understand, which is sweet, and you love him for it, and he has explained how this particular coffee brewing method works approximately forty-seven times, and each time there is something in you that chooses to receive it as fresh information because watching him explain things he loves is one of the small joys of your life.
The opinion. You know the opinion. It comes out in response to certain topics, certain news stories, certain films, certain restaurant choices. You have heard the opinion rendered in its full form so many times that you could deliver it yourself with appropriate emphasis. And sometimes, when he begins to deliver it, you catch your own face doing a thing — the fond, helpless smile of someone who knows exactly what is coming and finds themselves happy about it.
The tendency to be late. Not always, not catastrophically, but consistently, in a way that suggests an eternal optimism about traffic and time that the universe has never once validated. You leave fifteen minutes earlier than he suggests. You have made peace with this. It is, in its way, endearing — evidence of a man who consistently believes things will work out, which is, when you look at it sideways, almost a form of faith.
The snoring. The very specific and personal snoring, which is unlike any other snoring in the world, and which you have learned to navigate with a combination of pillow repositioning and — let us be honest — a kind of wry fondness, because even this belongs to him, even this is his, and the silence of his absence would be far worse than his sound.
And you do what you must but I’m never elbowing him in his sleep.
These moments — the pocket check, the repeated explanation, the well-worn opinion, the eternal optimism about time, the nighttime symphony — these are not deductions from a marriage. These are the marriage.
These are the texture of a shared life. The running vocabulary of a relationship. The private comedy that belongs only to two people who have spent enough time together to know each other’s rhythms completely.
There is a specific kind of love that lives in the eye-roll that turns into a smile. That happens right at the pivot point — the moment irritation slides into tenderness, when honestly, he’s doing this again becomes of course he is, I love him so much. That pivot — that tiny, private, involuntary shift from mild exasperation to helpless warmth — is, I would argue, one of the most intimate experiences available to human beings.
Oh boy, here he goes again.
God, I love him.
The Expansion of Love
Love is not a fixed quantity.
This is one of the things that early love doesn’t quite prepare you for, because early love tends to feel very specific — concentrated, intense, focused on particular qualities, particular moments, particular interactions. It is real, but it is narrow in the way that a beam of light is narrow. Very bright, very directed, very defined.
Deep love — love that has had time to grow and season and weather a few things — does something that early love cannot do. It expands.
Over time, the territory of love grows larger. It begins including things it did not include before. Where early love was focused on the highlights, deep love gradually absorbs everything. The strengths and the weaknesses. The gifts and the limitations. The impressive moments and the ordinary moments and the moments that are neither impressive nor ordinary but simply human.
The expansion is quiet and gradual. You don’t notice it happening the way you notice falling in love, which is dramatic and loud and impossible to miss. The expansion happens in the background of a shared life, the way a tree grows — you don’t watch it happening, but one day you look up and realize the shade has gotten much larger.
Deep love grows more generous.
Not in a passive, resigned way. In an active, encompassing way. It becomes capable of holding more. It becomes interested in more. It becomes — and this is the word I keep returning to — spacious.
A spacious love has room in it for the whole person. Not just the curated version. Not just the best days. Not just the attractive parts and the admirable qualities and the moments when he is everything you hoped he would be.
A spacious love has room for his uncertainty and his stubbornness and his occasional silences that last longer than you’d like. It has room for the days he is not at his best, for the weeks when he is distracted, for the habits that will never change no matter how many times they’ve been noted. It has room for the full human being.
And here is what’s extraordinary: The spacious love is not the compromised love.
The spacious love is the complete love. The love that can only exist on the highlight reel is a love that is always on the verge of disappointment, because human beings cannot maintain highlight-reel existence. The love that has expanded to include the whole person has no need to be disappointed. It already knows the full territory. It has already made its peace — not a grim, resigned peace, but a warm, genuine, eyes-open peace — with the entirety of him.
This is the love that sustains. That weathers. That becomes richer rather than dimmer over years. Because it has not been kept artificially small by impossible standards. It has been allowed to grow to its natural size. And its natural size turns out to be very large indeed. Large enough to include the stories told too often and the keys checked three times by the door. Large enough to hold the snoring and the eternal optimism about traffic. Large enough, even, to find these things — finally, fully, with no performance required —wonderful.
The Man Who Becomes Precious
There comes a moment — you cannot predict exactly when, and you cannot engineer it, and no book can quite prepare you for it — when a man stops being someone you love and becomes someone who is precious to you. These are not the same thing.
Loving someone is an orientation, a commitment, an active state of caring. It is real and important and not to be minimized. But preciousness is something further. Something that moves love from the relational into the almost sacred.
A thing is precious not because of its market value. Not because of its technical attributes. Not because it would impress someone who didn’t know its history. A thing is precious because of what it means. Because of the particular weight of feeling that has accumulated around it. Because of the irreplaceable quality of its specificity.
Preciousness cannot be constructed or purchased. It accrues. And when a man becomes precious to a woman — when she has loved him long and deeply enough that he has become irreplaceable in this specific way — everything connected to him undergoes a transformation.
The flaws are no longer flaws. Not because they disappeared. Not because they were corrected. Not because she has stopped seeing them. But because the category of flaw has been superseded by the category of him.
He is beyond evaluation now. Not because evaluation was wrong, but because it has served its purpose and become unnecessary. She is no longer assessing him. She is simply loving him. And when you are simply loving someone — when you have arrived at that place — the concept of flaw begins to feel almost beside the point.
Is this a flaw? It is him. Is that annoying? It is him. Is this imperfect? It is him — and him is what I love.
I think about this sometimes in the context of old photographs. A couple, sixty years married, looks at a photograph from their early years. The woman in the photograph is younger, technically “more” beautiful by any conventional metric. The man is younger, more conventionally vital. And yet the people looking at that photograph — the sixty-year versions of themselves — do not feel a loss. They feel something else. A tenderness that has no equivalent in early love. A preciousness that could only have been built by time.
The lines on his face are precious because they are his lines, accumulated through a shared history she witnessed.
The white in his hair is precious because it is evidence of a life lived alongside hers.
The way he moves, now slower, is precious because she knows how he moved then, and how he moved in the middle years, and the movement is part of the record of him.
This is what love does when it is given time and depth and care. It transforms a person into something irreplaceable. And when the person is irreplaceable, much of what he does and is and has and carries becomes irreplaceable too.
The flaws do not disappear. They become part of the precious.
The Invitation
This, then, is my invitation to you. Not: find a perfect man. There is no perfect man. And the search for one is not the noble pursuit it presents itself as. It is, very often, a fear of the real — the real person, the real relationship, the real love that requires more of you than evaluation does.
Not: lower your standards. Standards matter. Character matters. Kindness matters. Integrity matters. Spiritual alignment matters. These are not negotiable, and they are not what I’m asking you to release.
Not: pretend flaws don’t exist. They exist. They always will. A good man is not a flawless man. He is something more interesting and more real: a man whose goodness makes his imperfections beloved.
Here is the actual invitation: Find a good man. Not a perfect man. A good man. A man whose character is sound and whose heart is true. A man who is genuinely trying — at love, at growth, at his life. A man whose imperfections are ordinary rather than harmful, human rather than destructive.
Find him. And then love him. Not as a project. Not as a candidate still under evaluation. Not at arm’s length, waiting to see if he will finally deserve the fullness of your love. Love him. Fully. Generously. Spaciously.
With the kind of love that has room in it for his humanity, for the whole specific irreplaceable texture of who he is, including the parts that will occasionally make you close your eyes and breathe slowly.
If you do this — if you bring this quality of love to a genuinely good man — something will happen that I cannot quite predict in its particulars but can promise in its essence.
One day he will do that thing. You know what thing. The thing he has always done. The thing that, once upon a time, would have registered simply as an annoyance. The habit. The repetition. The peculiarity. The small, consistent, utterly personal thing that belongs to him the way his voice belongs to him and his history belongs to him. He will do it. And you will feel something rise in your chest that is almost too ordinary to call love, and almost too warm to call anything else.
It will not be resignation. It will not be tolerance. It will not be the gritted-teeth endurance of something you’ve reluctantly accepted. It will be something closer to delight. The particular delight of knowing someone so completely that their consistency — even their consistent imperfection — becomes a form of comfort. The delight of recognizing him in his habits, of seeing evidence of him in the ordinary moments of ordinary days.
That is not settling. That is not blindness. That is not a compromised life. That is the whole thing. That is love with enough room in it to be real. Love that has been given the space and time and generosity to become what it is capable of becoming. That is what it feels like when the flaws of a good man stop being deductions. And start being proof that he is yours: heart, body and soul.
The delight of a life that is full of him — of this specific man, with his specific qualities and specific quirks and specific story that you have heard enough times that you could tell it yourself, complete with the pause before the punchline. And somewhere in that moment, you may find yourself thinking, with the warmth and humor and exasperation and love that are all somehow the same feeling: “Oh boy. Here he goes again. God, I love him.”
Randi Fredricks, Ph.D.
Chapter Companion Song Recommendation:
— Unwritten, Natasha Bedingfield, 2004
This article is an excerpt from Randi Fredricks, Ph.D.’s forthcoming book Magnificent Men: How Men Are Undervalued and How Worshipping and Being Worshipped Can Bring You The Hot and Holy Love You Desire, exploring the restoration of men’s dignity and worth, the sacred and sensual dimensions of intimacy, and hot and holy love.
Author Bio
Randi Fredricks, Ph.D. is a best-selling author, psychotherapist, and leading expert in counseling, communication, and human connection. Her first published study, released in 1993, explored the impact of family dysfunction on intimacy and communication in adult relationships. For more than three decades, she has developed innovative therapeutic models to help individuals and couples create deeper connection, emotional resilience, and extraordinary relationships. Her work explores the intersection of psychology, spirituality, humor, eroticism, and human magnificence, helping people live more fully, love more deeply, and embrace the extraordinary possibilities of a beautiful life.
