For much of my life, I’ve been stymied by the question of what I was. I could tell people how I made my living, but I wasn’t sure how to define myself. I went through a serious identity crisis when I was 29 years old.
I had been operating a publishing company for about three years, but the company failed and I had to shut it down. It was the first major failure of my life, and it threw me into a tailspin. Up until that time, I had defined myself as a businessman and as a newspaper editor, but everything felt hollow at that point. I realized that I had a serious question: “What am I?”
I spent the next year in a general state of depression and despair. I’m not sure how I made it through that period. Nothing seemed to matter. And every day, the question from the face in the mirror mocked me: “Who are you, David?”
After considering and discarding a million ways of defining myself, I finally found an answer to my existential crisis, but that answer scared me even more than the nothingness of the depression had. It felt true, but I somehow felt like a fraud to say it. I was an artist.
When we sell Jesus like soap, maybe we’re spiritually bankrupt
Was life planned before birth? What did you come here to learn?
Bill in Congress would force TSA screeners to quit impersonating cops
I’m trying to live for what I love instead of attacking what I hate
The so-called ‘social contract’ just means ‘the rest of us own you’
I want to help out of pure love, but human motives are messy
If a bad relationship needs to end, fake Facebook posts won’t fool us
Proposals to skip rent payments are rooted in magical thinking