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?
You always need enough money that you can quit when it’s time
We like to think we’re complex, but personality gurus pegged me
When people push inner buttons, it’s easy to spiral down into dark
Sharing mundane details of life is underrated joy of loving someone
If parents excuse cheating, what should we expect from their kids?
Things you do in life determined by who you decide you want to be
What if people don’t really care about understanding each other?