I had my first existential crisis long before I knew what the words meant.
I was a 5-year-old in kindergarten. I remember being alone at the front of our house on Holly Hill Drive in Atlanta. Something in my little brain was trying to figure out my place in the world.
I can’t tell you why. I doubt normal 5-year-olds have such thoughts, but I seriously pondered who I was and whether I mattered. The questions hung heavy on my little heart, because I desperately needed to matter.
Suddenly, I had an answer that somehow made sense to me. I was 5 years old — and there were five people in my family — so that coincidence had to mean something. I must be important.
All of my life, I’ve experienced one crisis of this sort after another. The specific questions change, but they all mean the same thing.
Do I matter? Do I matter to you? Do I belong with you? Are you my home? Can I trust you to love me?
Union rules protect pepper-spraying cop from the firing he deserves
Smallest ray of hope can make us feel a change we need is coming
Continued collapse of competence points toward decline of a culture
I don’t know how to fix race issues, but anger at race-baiters won’t help
For all my life, I’ve hidden anger in order to be ‘perfect’ to others
Fear of possible violence keeps some people trapped by misery
Just a sandwich: Why do people make everything so political?
There are three kinds of lonely — and I don’t know which this is