The coyotes in my neighborhood keep me humble.  It’s in their nature to howl at night in El Sereno. They remind me of my life’s journey as an immigrant and all the sacrifices my parents made to help me get to this place. In a home, in a bed, beside a man who married me and made our family beef stew and peanut butter cookies for dinner. How did I get here? Coyotes also remind me of my many secret identities growing up, and the conditioning I did to wrap my existence around storytelling in order to survive.   I sometimes find myself awake late at night thinking about all the things I did not finish on my to do list. It frustrates me, and I have to remind myself that it’s not a big deal. Fridays are the worst. Sometimes it feels like I’m going to die because something didn’t get done. It’s my fault. Perfectionism haunts me to no end. It keeps me from pushing send, makes me count the pages, and reminds me that I am floating ever so gently between two planes that never truly let my feet lan