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?
KKK-loving newspaper owner has always been a nut; this isn’t news
Once you’ve found the right love, build your whole world around her
16-year-old charged with felony for science experiment gone bad
When we sell Jesus like soap, maybe we’re spiritually bankrupt
Don’t trust this con man — or almost anybody else on ‘TV news’
Cycles keep us circling through life until we get something right
Being treated with respect changed black teen’s racial beliefs in 1974
I need responsibility for slaying dragons to protect those I love
Need for certainty is an internal tyranny that leads to the wrong path