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?
Dogs, cats and children remind me of all the joy in small things
I don’t really hate you, honest; I’m just afraid you may hurt me
How many warnings can life give us when something’s gone wrong?
As I faced my father’s narcissism, I had to confront who I’d become
Is AI software a useful tool or does it dictate how I see myself?
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If you allow anything to be priority over love and beauty, you’re a fool