A teacher by profession, I spend a good part of my day working with first graders. This year I’ve spent time working with a girl who’s a select mute. She has a voice, but chooses not to use it, at least not in the school setting. I take her to my closet-sized classroom and read to her. I read or talk; she nods, points, and smiles.

Despite the limitation of her silence, I’ve managed to find some common ground with her. On the way to my classroom, she grasps her female superheroes t-shirt, pulling it slightly away from her. “Do you have a favorite superhero?” I ask. She points to Wonder Woman. “Really? Wonder Woman is my favorite superhero! In fact, when I was your age, I had a Wonder Woman birthday cake!” A smile spreads across her face.

A few days later, I bring a copy of a picture from my seventh birthday party, children gathered around the table–me in pigtails, my sister in her pageboy haircut, the neighborhood girl in her Holly Hobby dress, and the Wonder Woman cake in the middle of it all. “Would you like to keep the picture?” I ask. She smiles and nods.

After fanning out some picture books for her to select from, she eagerly grabs Milton the Early Riser, a book with a panda on the cover, pointing at the panda for emphasis. “Is that your favorite animal?” I ask. She nods emphatically. “Wow, pandas are my favorite animal too!” I say, her body jolting in happy surprise. “When I was your age,” I continue, “I didn’t have a teddy bear, I had a panda bear.” She smiles. Again, I bring her a picture, this time of my beloved panda bear. We have found connection.

She feels safe with me. But I haven’t heard her voice, and perhaps I never will. Her anxiety is a barrier. She’s afraid of something, but what? Even with the privacy of my classroom, I might not be enough to assuage her fears and help her find her voice. But like her, I know fear, I know anxiety, and I know the desire for connection. I too was painfully shy as a child. I too have suffered from anxiety. I too grasp for connection.

My extended family is extensive. At family gatherings when I was a child, such a large audience inhibited me. The words I would say caught in my throat, only squeaking out as whispers in my father’s ear. He was my mouthpiece.

And how many times did I play alone, watching other children playing together with envy, but feeling the social divide insurmountable, my legs grounded like a statue, not knowing how to approach. Or when I did play, quietly going along with the group, wanting to be liked, never strongly asserting my point of view. That seemed too big a risk. What if they didn’t like me? It seemed so easy and so natural for others. Why was it so hard for me? I craved connection but didn’t know how to connect. I was lonely. I wanted to be like them, but somehow I felt different, an outsider.

Perhaps I was different, perhaps I am different by nature, but with hindsight, I realize that much of the social divide I felt was self-inflicted, a consequence of not overcoming my fear, of not saying the words I had to say.

Writers are commonly introverts, and by necessity observers. I am both. I’ve always been curious about other people. Where are they going? What do they do? What do they think about? What do they want? Are they happy? Are they loved? I have my own rich inner world, but I’m curious about my fellow beings, I want to know their stories, and I want to better understand them. I want to share in their worlds and I want to share mine. I don’t just want to be an onlooker of life; I want to be a participant. I want connection. I want to love and be loved.

As a girl I was susceptible to the dream that Disney sold young girls—of someday finding my prince and living an effortless happily ever after, that someday someone would find me lovable. I no longer believe in fairy tales, but I haven’t stopped believing in love.

Though my social skills and perspective have matured over time, I’ve spent a large part of my life alone or lonely, craving a companion, craving connection, craving love—both to give and receive. There has been no greater desire in my life than to love and be loved. I realize now that love is not easy, that love takes work, that there is risk involved, that I might get hurt, that I might lose, and even that I might end up alone. But I believe in Love and want to do the work of love, because connection is a precious thing.

Human beings need connection and in our fast-paced social-media world, deep connection can be elusive. To have a loving partner to share your world and dreams with is one of the most sacred gifts of this life. There is a reason marriage is considered a sacrament. Love is sacred. But love can tarnish, so it must be polished and cared for.

I’ve been ruminating on a line from Shakespeare recently. It’s not a famous line, and it’s spoken by a rather foolish character, Sir Andrew Aguecheek in the play Twelfth Night. Aguecheek is a ridiculous name for a ridiculous character. The name literally means fever-cheek, and pronounced, it sounds like a sneeze, “Ague-cheek!” “Ahh-choo!” Shakespeare is having fun here, methinks. Nevertheless, it’s Aguecheek who speaks my favorite line in all of Shakespeare, even if it isn’t Shakespeare’s finest line. Upon Aguecheek hearing his drunken companion Sir Toby remark that Maria adores him, Aguecheek replies, “I was adored once too.”

“I was adored once too.”

This line has always struck me as a profound and wounded statement. It’s a devastating line. An entire tragedy lies buried in these five words. The implication is a happier time, a fulfillment, followed by loss, grief, pain, and regret. Love, lost.  And it’s particularly ironic coming from such a comic fool of a character.

Shakespeare probably did not intend for this line to have much resonance. An actor friend of mine who’s performed in many a Shakespeare play certainly doesn’t see the attraction of this particular line. And Shakespeare, prone to soliloquy, certainly doesn’t follow it up with any words or action to sustain that line of thought. Nevertheless, Shakespeare’s writing is prolific with literary gems, as well as sage insight into human character. I find a melancholy beauty in this line.

“I was adored once too.”

The play itself is about adoration. Olivia adores Viola disguised as a man, then she adores Sebastian, Viola’s twin brother—a real man. Orsino adores Olivia, then Viola. And once Sebastian’s on the scene, Sebastian falls for Olivia. Shakespeare’s comedies tend to be a bit madcap at times.

But it’s also a play about not quite getting what you want, or rather, what you think you want. The alternate title of the play, What You Will, hints at this. Orsino thinks he wants Olivia, then he is confused by his feelings for his man-servant Cesario, until Cesario is unmasked as Viola. Olivia thinks she wants Viola, but when the veil of Viola’s disguise is lifted and Sebastian’s on the scene, they both come to the realization of what they want, or what they will.

And isn’t love like that? Love isn’t about getting exactly what you think you want, but making compromises. In the compromise, what you will ends up looking a little different than what you think you want. But that is how you tend to love. Companionship and connection are dynamic, they are the combined energy of two people. To keep that energy positive takes mindfulness and compromise from both energy sources.

But what of this line of lost adoration given to the foolish Aguecheek? Is he somehow seen as unworthy of sustained adoration? Of love? If not, it gives this otherwise lightweight character some poignancy, and I doubt that is Shakespeare’s intention though I find poignancy in the words themselves.

But to crossover from the play to life, when I reflect on my own pursuit of love and those five words, “I was adored once too,” I can identify with the fool and would-be lover, whose present quest for Olivia’s love is futile and whose past love ended in defeat. But unlike Aguecheek, I try not to succumb to my tendencies to be the fool, but to learn from them, to persist and keep striving.

I’ve strived to be my best and to be a good partner. I cannot hope for Love if I cannot do the work of Love, take care of relationship, and be a good partner. I don’t do everything right, nor does anyone, including my past and potential partners; we are human. Love continues to elude me, nevertheless, I still believe in Love and shall persist in trying to be the best person, solo or partnered, that I can be.

Perhaps someday I’lleven get a return on my investment and find a man who’lldo the same for me. Until then, I shall do my best to walk in Love, regardless. I may be a fool for Love, but I don’tthink that makes me a fool. I think it makes me human.