I've never believed that the people who become your family are always the ones who share your blood.

​

Lauren and I have never shared DNA

​

Sometimes they're the souls who keep finding you.

​

Again and again.

 

Lifetime after lifetime.

 

In different names. Different places. Different stories.

 

But somehow... always each other.

 

Lauren has been my sister since the beginning of this life.

We grew up side by side so naturally that I never stopped to question whether we were "actually" related.

The word actually has never mattered to me. Our souls made that decision long before anyone else could.

​

There has always been something ancient about us.

 

The kind of love that doesn't feel introduced—

it feels remembered.

And now, somehow, that love has continued.

 

Not ended.

 

Not divided.

 

Continued.

 

Tully feels like another thread woven into something that has been quietly stitching itself together for lifetimes.

When she was born, I wasn't going to be meeting a stranger.

I was meeting someone my soul had already been holding space for.

 

There was one little detail that has engulfed me longer than it probably should have.

 

Tully arrived at 1:23 a.m.,

 

and

 

I was born at 4:56 a.m.

 

The numbers simply keep counting.

Maybe it's a coincidence.

Maybe it's nothing at all.

Or maybe it's just one more gentle wink from a universe that occasionally lets us notice the seams.

 

Either way, I hold onto it.

 

Because that's what love does.

 

It collects tiny miracles that no one else would think to keep.

When I look at Tully, I don't just see a beautiful little girl.

I see the continuation of a love that has shaped my entire life.

I see Lauren's gentleness finding another heartbeat.

I see the way souls expand instead of disappear.

I imagine that, in some lifetime before this one, Lauren and I made a quiet promise.

​

"No matter where we end up...

we'll find each other."

​

And maybe this time, before we parted, we added one more promise.

​

"Next time, bring Tully."

​

There is something profoundly comforting about believing that the people meant for us don't simply appear once.

They return.

In new forms.

With new lessons.

With tiny hands instead of familiar ones.

With fresh eyes that somehow still feel like home.

​

So I'll spend this lifetime doing what I imagine I've always done.

​

Loving Lauren.

 

Loving Tully.

 

And trusting that,

when this story ends

and another begins,

we'll all three find one another all over again.

 

Just as we always have.

 

Just as we always will.

​