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?
Well, if you really want to know, this is what I’m still looking for
Love & Hope — Episode 12:
Atlanta police arrest wrong Teresa, but keep her locked up for 53 days
Nature made me like my mother, but my father tried to erase that
Hey, you! If you’re in New Jersey, you help pay for ‘Jersey Shore’
Noise of culture isn’t evil, but it drowns out what really matters
Zombie statists: ‘But if there’s no government, who’ll build roads?!’
Political satire works best when exaggerated truth is at its core
Conflict pushes inner buttons to make me feel like child in trouble