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?
I can live without ‘Galt’s Gulch,’ but I need my ‘Akston’s diner’
Why are killing, maiming people elsewhere called moral, ‘legal’?
Want to really understand someone? Visit the places that shaped his past
When people identify with their masters, freedom is hard to accept
To save my own sanity, it’s time for me to shut up about Trump
World is an insane roller coaster and I need this insanity to stop
Humans are impatient, but changes in Alabama show speed of change
UPDATE: Two weeks after surgery, I’m better; thanks for asking