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?
Identity crisis might lead to integration of my inner selves
Galt’s Gulch? I can live without that, but I need my own ‘Akston’s diner’
We project an image for others, but few see us as we really are
I’ve jumped off a career cliff and now I have six months to find net
‘All animals are equal, but [deaf] animals are more equal than others’
Once the dream of millions, is U.S. citizenship becoming a burden?
Accepting joy tomorrow does no good if tomorrow never comes
Colorado high school student quits choir over Islamic worship song