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?
Why keep playing a game that’s impossible for you to win?
What if we had a birthday party for the USA — and nobody came?
If you’ve gotten on the wrong bus, nothing changes until you get off
Online exposure doesn’t bug Lucy, but humans require some privacy
Children’s affection can turn a lousy day into a reason to smile
If Ron Paul was ‘our last hope,’ what’s your backup plan now?
There’s a secret to contentment that selfish people never accept