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?
Turkey pardon? How about pardons for jailed innocent people instead?
Missing someone creates intense physical sensations in my heart
If terrorists ‘hate us for our freedom,’ U.S. politicians are their best allies
China’s one-child policy: Unintended consequences on a grand scale
To unlock your heart for real love, you must embrace vulnerability
Is there life on Mars? Is there love? Where can we find what’s missing?
Union rules protect pepper-spraying cop from the firing he deserves
We already know what’s right, but we choose our lusts instead
Doing it for the children? No, they’re doing it for the TV cameras