Reflective Essay: Why Am I Alive?

When I was six I asked the first question my mom couldn’t answer, “Why am I alive?” Before she spoke she paused, broke a few pieces of bread for the robins we were feeding on our chipping green porch, and finally responded, “That’s a question for later sweetheart, how about a question for now?” Taking the piece of bread she offered I asked why birds are here and then if we were here for the same reason. She shook in her graying hair in amusement and smiled before tossing more bread out into the yard. We sat side by side as she distracted me with bread related tasks until my young sister woke and joined us leaving no time for further discussion.
For years she’s evaded my question leaving me to determine the answer myself. Like many who find

I wondered how someone who doesn’t understand the point of living could possibly be alive to contribute to the idea of meaning. Three years passed by and I continued to grapple with the possibility that my life didn’t have a quality worth being alive for. My parents stood to the side and allowed me to experience the unfamiliar feeling of dejected emotion for a while before my mom, who still couldn’t answer the one question I thought I needed, decided it was time to intervene. Instead of giving me the answer I desired she showed me that there was more to life than expertise. She spoke words that helped me overcome the illogical idea I had created that to be successful I had to be all knowing. Through my mom I learned that there was a balance between knowledge and happiness and to be there I had to learn balance. It took time but I was able to find grounding on an existence rooted in locomotion and from there I was able to piece back together the parts of my life I had uprooted. By no means did I abandon my quest for knowledge, on the contrary I wanted to find a space where I could continue my search and still be able to feed birds with my mom without feeling an overwhelming sense of urgency to retreat back to my