I had my first existential crisis in the back of my mom’s car on the way to school. For some reason, between trying to pick boogers and remembering if I had Spanish homework due, alarm bells went off in my head. I was going to die. Up until then, I had been a happy passenger of my childhood. As far back as I remembered, playdates, vacations, videogames and school were all things that just happened. I already had a dog and great-grandma pass away, but nobody told me that could happen to me! In retrospect, I’m glad nobody did. That would’ve been disturbing if, while our family was gathered around the operating table to put our dog down, my mother turned to me, leaned down and said, “YOU’RE NEXT!”
After making the startling and terrifying realization of my mortality, I asked myself: “Why the hell am I going to school?” Actually, why is anybody doing anything? I tried desperately to come up with an answer. I don’t know what I concluded, but at 13, I was pretty sure I was right (I wasn’t).
I’ve tried answering the question many times since. The answers change as I do. I’ve been a utilitarian and an existentialist, a humanitarian and a spiritualist, a pessimist and an optimist. Every time I thought I was right, and every time I was wrong. I’ve seen beauty in everything and watched the color drain from the world. I have fallen in love and had my heart shattered. I have crafted dreams and jokes and friendships and I’ve failed in many endeavors. I’ve known triumph and disappointment, expectations and judgements. All this experience, and still I’m clueless.
Speaking of disappointment, my response so far might be the latest on the pile. The truth is that I don’t believe anybody can know the meaning of life. No books, yoga poses, or laws of thermodynamics will ever sum it all up perfectly. However, the question is still important. If not for the answer, then for the reason we ask it in the first place.
When I think back to that thirteen-year-old boy silently staring out the car window grappling the weight of existence, I see something quite sad unfolding. He feels totally out of control, and he’s alone. He didn’t really care to know the meaning of life – he wanted comfort. He wanted somebody to tell him that they are just as scared as him. If I could go back, if I could talk to him, I’d tell him this:
Nobody comes into this world willingly. By the time any of us even understand what ride we’re on, we find out the tracks end with us flying into a cliff. Yes, the cliff is scary. It’s distracting too, but there’s still a long ride in front of you. You have plenty of time. Experience is free, get as much of it as you can. Know the people around you, ask them questions. You’ll find you’re never alone. Try to do right by others, laugh at the ride if you want. It’s a ridiculous design. Finally, don’t be afraid to make a fool of yourself!
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