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?
I haven’t learned to stop walking on eggshells around angry people
A tax on folks who can’t do math? Winning may be worst possibility
Cancer diagnosis forces you to decide what really matters in life
Love’s closest counterfeit sounds like love but acts like selfish need
Just give us fake, happy smiles; who wants to hear your feelings?
Don’t complain about debt when you borrow $35,000 to study puppetry
HUMOR: The senator chooses between heaven and hell
Are your daily decisions giving you the results you want out of life?
My ideal woman will never exist, but I keep falling in love with her