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.
There’s a lot to complain about, but miracle is so much goes right
Try a new game: Make others smile — and let yourself smile with them
They won’t listen to arguments; they might listen to honest art
‘Conservative’ GOP governors forget principles when their state involved
When I die, what will I remember? Who won an election or who I loved?
Listen to Samuel’s ancient warning to Israel about anointing a ruler: ‘…you shall be his slaves’
What kind of sick society names Obama, Clinton its most admired?
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