The last months I spent living in LA, most evenings, it was always balmy, I’d walk the two blocks in Venice from my solo sublet to the apartment on Rose Avenue two of my friends shared with their pup, Bernie. Every night was girls’ night. One of us ordered Thai after jiu-jitsu, another made us teas, another (me) was happy to sit there and receive of their sweet hospitality.

We’d always gather under the guise of watching 90 Day Fiancé, a show all of us, either immigrants ourselves, dating non-Americans, or both, reveled in. Often, we wouldn’t even end up watching it, because conversation was always first. Work, partnership, current events, life in our 30s.

There was an aura to it all, too. (Of course; it’s LA.) It was a feeling of the indelible, like it’s been this way forever, and also of lucky disbelief. We were all living a slice of our dreams, just being like this, and we were sharing the same pie, together.

“You know how people talk about the ‘good ole days’?” Amelia asked one night, jumping up, all of us snuggled on the couch, pup included. “These are the ‘good ole days’!” We beamed. Yes, this is it. This is them.

What may be even better than being lucky, is being able to know—really know; to feel, to know on a felt level—that you’re lucky. To be experiencing the luck, and feeling the gratitude of that luck, all at the same time.

Months later, I was on a walk with my parents after dinner, a tradition we’d started now that I was spending more time at home with them, the three of us, all adults now under the same roof, finding our way into enjoyment of easeful days and shared routines together. “These are the good ole days,” I thought, as we looped around the suburban neighborhood I couldn’t wait to leave as a teen and felt like comfort incarnate now.

And I smiled. I was on the couch in LA with my friends, and I was on a walk with my parents, all at the same time, in that place of forever appreciation.

For Ellie, Amelia & Bernie