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?
We forget how to be happy, but children and animals remember
W.V. student suspended from school and arrested for pro-gun t-shirt
My mother was more impressive than my father led me to believe
Turkey pardon? How about pardons for jailed innocent people instead?
Love & Hope — Episode 6:
Her cat’s presence brings comfort to grandmother dying in hospital
Our life choices dictate who will be there when it’s our time to die
We can see injustices of the past, but still honor men who achieved
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