It’s an ache of a question for too many people: does it even matter that I exist? Why?
It breaks my heart, truly, that any precious, unique, beautiful human being can ever feel this way.
But let me answer it definitively:
It does matter. It matters profoundly. It matters profoundly that you exist.
Even in a world full of so much noise, where we can almost feel the lives of 8 billion people via social media and news reverberating around us: you are singular.
There is no one like you.
Truth be told, it’s difficult for me to articulate this fully without bringing in the reality of a Christian perspective, where every person is created, known, seen, and loved by God, capable of an eternal happiness regardless of the rejections, sorrows, and disappointments of this life. I don’t know that there’s another religious perspective or philosophy that can hold the depth of grief in the human heart that asks a question like this, or one that can adequately answer it.
Sometimes we really do perceive we are alone, and in those times, only a loving God can possibly cut in.
But for most people, the truth is more immediate. You are part of a network of people who would grieve you if you were gone: a mother, son, sister, cousin, coworker, father, friend. You are the only one with your face, your voice, your smile, your way of being with people, your unique gifts (and yes, I can promise you have them, even if you don’t think they are particularly important or “shiny”).
But maybe most critically, you have an immense potential to be an avenue of love to a world so in need of who you are.
Many people who struggle with their purpose or sense of meaning find it growing when they intentionally choose to love and help others in need, and this can take even very simple forms: volunteering to help with an organization serving the poor, calling or visiting the friend who is sick, being generous with someone in need.
So many people are in need of even just your simple presence when they are suffering. It doesn’t have to be complicated.
Sometimes these questions of existence and meaning can be intensified by the body and its needs. We are humble, little creatures in many ways. Very practically, it’s almost shocking how much of a difference tending to our physical needs, particularly those that affect our nervous systems, can improve our perception of life.
I don’t want to be dismissive of real psychological or spiritual pain, but sometimes a mix of blood sugar crashing, mineral deficiencies, and hormonal confusion can truly skew our understanding of reality. We are beautifully complex beings, where every part of us affects the other parts: our bodies affect our minds; our minds affect our bodies; our perception of our relationships bleeds into how we take care of ourselves.
In the end, though, this query about the value of our existence seems to be a real part of the human experience, and a lot of it can only be solved—if we can call it that—through an experience of loving and being loved.
I wrote a song many years ago for a girl I knew in my city, who had moved away. We had the beginnings of a friendship, and she was precious, but I didn’t know her well. She died shortly after moving due to a kind of freak illness, and this is what came of it:
I think the song expresses this reality—that loving and becoming someone who loves—truly does matter.
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There’s more of this.
To all of these deep, real questions of the human heart, my own response throughout my life has been to write and sing. Artistic work and its expression is often how we begin to wrestle through some of the more confusing and painful parts of life.
The whole body of work I’ve built has been a real benefit to many people who are going through a challenging time. I am truly honored by this.
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My music and writing is how I invite people into a deeper, more human, and more grounded place amidst the chaos of modern life.
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