I love stars.

Close your eyes, and take a few deep breaths in. Breathe in deeply enough that you feel your lungs and rib cage expand, and then imagine standing outside on a crisp, clear Fall night somewhere magical. The temperature is neither too cold nor too hot. The symphony of cicadas, babbling creeks and tree crickets replace the noisy cacophony of daytime vehicles, clocks ticking and aimless chatter. Artificial light is replaced with the fireflies’ luminosity. Owls keep watch. A slight breeze tickles your skin and whispers through blades of ankle kissing grass. On the best of nights, the mist clears, giving an unadulterated view of a vast and dark sky. You’re in an alcove, tucked into a quiet corner of the world, and hugged on three sides by towering peaks of snow-capped mountains. You feel surrounded. You feel safe. Above you, miles and miles above you, stretches a blanket of celestial beauty from which your eyes cannot be moved. Against a cobalt blue night, colors shift. The backdrop is cobalt blue, except where it fades to a soft shade of violet at the edges of the deeper pink clouds that divide the sky, offering a rare glimpse of the Milky Way galaxy. Thousands of stars decorate the night, bathing the world in a romantic, soft light. Just there, shooting from the top left of the velvety landscape, a streak of white zooms by, leaving a faint white tail behind. Having opened your eyes just in time, you gasp at the sight of the night’s first shooting star: you quickly make a wish. And then it occurs to you that you’ve just perpetuated a ritual passed down since the dawn of time: wishing on stars.

I’ve been thinking of stars a lot lately. My phone has an app where it helps me locate the one just westward of our house, the one that’s named after Alight. There are so many things that are fascinating about them, and I thought I’d spend this week sharing some of the facts that most intrigue me. Part of our collective consciousness, after all, is knowing what it’s like to stargaze.

The thought that most interests me tonight is that, in our Milky Way galaxy alone, there are between 200-400 billion stars. There are only 9,069 stars that are visible across the entire sky and, of those, only about 2000 can be seen on any given night, and that full range can only bee viewed if the conditions are just right. Isn’t that just like people? Inside, the full range of our potential is likely as unfathomable as counting to 200 billion is–how big is that, anyway–but only a portion of that potential within us is ever explored. Of that which is explored, we compartmentalize, hide or otherwise keep out of sight of others a lot. I heard it said: You’re likely going through something that no one knows anything about. Just as thousands of stars are hidden each night from view by distance, cloud coverage, light pollution or other irritants, what are we hiding from others’ view because of pain, shame, pride or other emotions that gaslight us into forgetting who we are?

The starry story I want to remember tonight is that each star we see, every one, is bigger than the Sun. The ones hidden away by distance or light pollution — they are bright, too, because they make up who we are. Not seeing them doesn’t make them any less real or any less valuable. Similarly, our worth is not determined by only the brilliance we allow others to see, but also by the unhidden lights we’ve buried. Because our flaws, traumas and insecurities — those stars we’ve hidden away from sight — are still lights, waiting to be transformed into stories of victory, of freedom and of healing. Just out of sight, just beyond the naked eye, energy is exploding within our galaxy and beyond: stars are pulsating, growing bigger and bigger until they explode, casting about debris that ultimately forms new stars, planets and galaxies, ever expanding the vastness of space. What’s happening within, where we tuck away that which we think no one wants to see?

As I stare into the night sky, I’m reminded that the only way to both be inspired and to inspire is to strip back the layers, allow others to see that which hurts us and, by so doing, redefine it as a new source of light. Isaiah 40:26 says: “Lift up your eyes to heavens: Who created all these? He who brings out the starry host one by one and calls forth each of them by name. Because of his great power and mighty strength, not one of them is missing.”

Neither the parts seen nor unseen are forgotten or unknown, and yet we are loved anyway and cannot be removed from that love (Romans 8:35-39). I’ve lived in fear of being not good enough, dirty, selfish, bad. And I’ve believed that these parts of me left me unworthy of friendship, of love, of anything good. Until I’ve watched the parts of me that are the most damaged connect with someone else, and act as a catalyst for new light in both our lives. When I meet new people, I want to know the story of the stars hiding within them, the ones that others can’t see, because those are the ones that can ultimately shine the brightest.