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?
Nine years ago, he asked her, ‘Will you take a chance on me?’
Next, this city is going to be selling lemonade and holding bake sales
Does this look like a child abuser? Voters must not have thought so
Fear of possible violence keeps some people trapped by misery
Ban on saggy pants: Why do we require laws against looking foolish?
Obama’s plan to ‘tax the rich’ is simply class warfare — and politics
Delusional Democrats help Trump re-election by chasing phantoms
If you listen carefully, your heart will tell you what you really need
Galt’s Gulch? I can live without that, but I need my own ‘Akston’s diner’