How old were you when you first wondered why you were put onto this earth? And how did it feel for this tremendous question to fill every inch of your tiny child stature? The first time I thought about this topic was around the second grade. For many, age seven is a period of early adolescence marked by many questions and innocent misunderstandings.

I only started noticing the world around me as I physically grew (which makes sense). I’d made it out of the stroller and past any lingering questions of object impermanence. But as I watched myself grow, I had the sneaking suspicion that maybe nothing was permanent. The proof was in the pudding: I was physically growing every single day.

Then I learned about dying through the grapevine, and everything I thought I understood was put into question. It didn’t fit into my schema of the world. I wasn’t afraid per se but rather confused about the point of, well, all of it.

I didn’t get it. What was all of this growing for if we died at the end of it? It made no sense to my seven-year-old brain. My existence was simply beyond my comprehension at that point.

But soon enough, thanks to the magic of an extremely partially developed frontal lobe, I pushed any questions of existence to the back burner and kept on making beaded friendship bracelets. These thoughts of existence and the absurdity thereof wouldn’t enter my mind again until age 10 when I was catapulted into a world of prematurely complex thought.

When my symptoms of obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) started at the time, my worldview irreversibly shifted. Symptoms of depression don’t make sense in the brain and body of a fifth grader, and I was suddenly inundated by thoughts of morality, mortality, and the meaning of everything in between.

In the thick of it, I never really asked myself, “Why am I here to overcome this?” It’s just not how my brain was operating then, and it’d take a while before I even reached that point. Anyone who has dealt with depression knows that the symptoms come first, and the questions later.

I thought about my death at this time, mostly in an intrusive manner. My curiosity felt as if it didn’t keep me safe anymore, and the questions felt too big for me to handle. There was not yet a grand vision of any upward trajectory — I was just living in the pit of the moment.

Curiosity in childhood is oftentimes synonymous with magic. So, when the magic I held onto for years had seemingly evaporated, I felt more afraid of the world, not more curious about it. (And if I had a time machine, I’d go back and tell myself that the magic never went away, it just got obscured by some passing storm clouds.)

I was perpetually in survival mode and fighting nonstop to get back to my earthly experience. My “why” for existing at that time was being happy and content. And I wasn’t. My purpose once again got pushed to the side until a later date.

Trauma is a blurry lens, one to be mistrustful of. For years after the onset, I survived and occasionally thrived, slowly but surely gaining back my independence and happiness. I was still processing the emotional fallout of what my condition had done to me, but curiosity slowly crept back in.

The pandemic in 2020 was life-altering for everyone, and some of us suddenly found ourselves with a lot of time to reflect. Collective trauma has a way of connecting us even when we can’t see it. COVID-19 set the stage for my revitalized internal quest to figure out the grand meaning of my existence.

With all this free time suddenly at my disposal, I found myself asking the big questions. I wanted to know what made me happy, what made me sad; my dreams and fears; and everything I was working towards. I wrote a list, too.

I didn’t have to dig too deep to locate my value system. Those parts of me that were traumatized by my mental health experiences still had roots that ran to my core, but they weren’t too complicated. On the other side of the immense pain that I dragged myself out of over a few years, I realized I existed to do the things I was born to do. The best parts — and only the best parts — of my destiny were set in stone. There was nothing I could do to mess up what was meant for me.

I existed to feel joy at the small things and to cry at others. I remained a daughter, friend, partner, general doer of good everywhere I went, and maker of mistakes. I survived my OCD so that I could help others with the condition to feel less alone in their struggles and make my pain into meaning. This was precisely my conclusion: I’m alive because I have a lot to experience and learn. I am, remarkably, enough exactly as I am.

This discovery held unwavering truths and was a portal into the next stage of this earthly experience. This innate life meaning serves as my compass now, guiding me in all that I do. This awareness protects me and makes me less afraid of death.

Death remains, but it’s no longer my earthly business. I’m grateful to have found my “why”. It’ll undoubtedly shift and expand throughout my life, but I have a strong internal framework to support me here and now. And that’s enough.

When you find your reason for being alive and making meaning, the rest always follows."