I'm currently a senior in high school, and as I've been working on my college essays, I thought about why I found the college process difficult beyond the essays and the paperwork. First, it feels like there are just too many choices and then not many choices at all, and what do I do when I realize that I want to know the correct answer where there are no right choices? Second, everyone talks about "being authentic," but what does that even mean, and how can I truly be authentic? Third, I tried thinking about the college process in terms of what I would do if I wanted to have no regrets when I look back at it, but what does it really mean to have no regrets, and how do I do that if it's even possible? There are many other thoughts, but these were the ones that stood out.

I thought about when I started taking an Existentialism course at my school, which was only this fall. I had taken a couple of Religion & Philosophy classes at my school before, but I was completely unprepared when I saw a course called "Existentialism" (so ominously simple a title). I was very interested, especially because I used to only half-joke that I had existential crises before, but I never knew what Existentialism really was. So it was out of equal parts fascination and fear that I chose it, and I had no idea what to expect. But I believe in taking classes (and especially in philosophy and religion) for the sake of stepping outside of my comfort zone in a healthy way, and I had this feeling that if I took this course, I more or less would have to confront what I was afraid of--death, meaning, purpose, and so on, which I wanted to do.

Existentialism certainly did not answer all my questions--in fact, it probably gave me even more questions. But I also wanted to reflect on what that Existentialism course taught me. It did end up being challenging in ways more than academic, but I believe all great philosophy and religion classes should strive to do that anyway. So, I was interested in Existentialism because it dealt with questions about freedom and unfreedom, choice and possibility, responsibility and authenticity, purpose and meaning, and mortality and absurdity. I did not see Existentialism as always hopeful, but it's also not the depressing stuff I had imagined. Existentialism, as I learned, was also a deeply diverse movement with some shared philosophical concerns and unifying themes, and Existentialists often severely disagreed on many different topics. Far from being a singular school of philosophy in post-Second World War France, Existentialism is a broad term for a collection of movements and thinkers with shared concerns in questions of subjectivity, freedom, choice, responsibility, authenticity, purpose, meaning, mortality, and absurdity, among other things. Existentialism spans such realms as Christian Existentialism, Black Existentialism, and more. Existentialism, I learned, was different from many other philosophies in that it emphasized subjective individual experiences in the context of objective realities over a dogmatic system where objective truths were everything. I think in this way, Existentialism confronted the very limits of philosophy itself because Existentialist systems of ethics have to deal with rules governing ethics as well as the subjective experiences of the individual.

I do not see Existentialism as an overly optimistic movement that is detached from the real world, thinking that we're all completely free as long as we think hard enough about it, able to escape suffering, injustice, or oppression as long we have the right mindset. I believe that most (if not all) of those we consider to be Existentialists do not think this way--with its emphasis on freedom and choice comes a focus also on responsibility, unfreedom, and other realities that must be weighed against a vision of a freer, more authentic, more meaningful, more purposeful, and more ethical life. Many Existentialists' philosophies were intimately and inextricably tied to the personal and systemic challenges of their time, such as the Second World War, racial injustice and violence, and personal crises of faith. Again, I do not believe that the Existentialists offer all the answers to our problems, but as a young person living in what I consider to be turbulent times, I found that some of what I read deeply resonated with me.

But perhaps the part of Existentialism that stuck with me the most is knowing that we are ultimately alone in many ways and that this is not necessarily bad--it is just something we have to confront and come to terms with, something part of our humanness and our human condition. For example, I always had trouble thinking about death, but I didn't know what it was about death that was difficult for me, and then I realized that it was partly because of this great irony between frequently experiencing death through other people and never having experienced one's own death. Moreover, the idea of the subjective experience of death seems so far away from the objective concept of death, whether philosophically, scientifically, or in any other way.

For a long time, I didn't think that there were some questions that, to some extent, we ultimately had to explore on our own, that we ultimately had to try to find the answers for ourselves, as only we ourselves can answer them. When my grandfather passed away, I found myself suddenly facing unanswerable questions: What do we do when we realize we don't live forever? And how do we live life the "right" way, knowing our time here is ultimately limited? How do I, in short, "make the most" out of life? I also struggled to come to terms with the reality that there are questions no one can answer or questions where clear-cut answers are not possible. I was very concerned with doing things the "right" and "correct" way (and by the way, growing up, my family was not religious). I was afraid I was not doing all I could to achieve this, that I was being a bad person or hurting others without even knowing it. I didn't want to think about these questions, but I felt that these questions just held onto me and wouldn't let go, and I didn't feel that I was progressing toward finding the answers. I thought I was that weird kid with weird thoughts, and no one else thought about things like these. I didn't know why the questions had to happen to me.

Exploring these questions was how I got into philosophy and religion. I was interested in philosophy and religion--particularly Existentialism--because I didn't see philosophical questions or problems as purely intellectual exercises or interesting puzzles--I saw these questions as deeply personal and connected to my life. I saw them as immediate concerns that were not distant or isolated from me. However, Existentialism, with its emphasis on how to live an authentic and ethical life, seemed especially close to me compared to philosophies dealing with objective reality or similar areas (the classic "how do we know a chair is a chair" or "how do we know the chair is there").

In an almost paradoxical way, as I explored more, I began to realize that learning about philosophy and religion is all about spending time with myself and getting to know myself, and then spending time with these concepts and reflecting on them as I go through daily life. At the same time, I began to understand that learning about religion and philosophy also means finding community and engaging with real people (both past and present) and their values, beliefs, identities, and experiences. I now believe that a large part of philosophy is dealing with and reflecting on one's own solitude, and at the same time, philosophy is built on the exchange of perspectives and experiences with others. I realized that philosophy can also make me feel less alone because, especially when I read an author I resonate with, I think about how people have been grappling with questions similar to mine for, well, almost all of human history. Knowing that I wasn't just that one weird kid would have changed everything for my younger self, but I suppose there is a time for these things. Sitting with feelings of loneliness and uncertainty has been difficult, and part of this journey has been coming to terms with myself and accepting myself in my current stage in this journey without forcing myself into boxes.

Whether in my Religion & Philosophy classes or through informal settings, I've been pleasantly surprised about just how many other young people have also been asking similar questions and are willing to have authentic and often vulnerable conversations about these questions, although it's certainly not always easy to find the right crowd. And in this process, I've found a sense of community with people so different from me in so many ways. It's nice to know that there are others with me on similar journeys and that, in some ways, our shared questions--including our shared confusion, perplexity, and even frustration, perhaps--brought us together.

All this is not to say that I've "figured out" all of this, if that's even possible. I used to think that everyone around me, including all the young people, had all of this figured out and that I was behind everyone else on all of this. I'm still very much on this journey, and I'm still asking many of the same questions, but also some new questions, and most importantly, I'm asking these questions together with others. I realize it can be messy, but I'm learning to accept and face the mess when it's hard to embrace it, and I've also learned to not put myself into boxes or take on labels when I don't feel ready for them. Much of it has been about making friends with myself, learning to get along with the part of me that really wants answers, and being patient with that part of myself. Part of that is acknowledging and accepting solitude, knowing that we're all ultimately alone in some way, but also seeking community without aiming to get rid of solitude completely.

And when I tried to step into and sit with the messiness while acknowledging that not knowing or uncertainty can be scary and frustrating, at the same time, it was liberating in a way because I learned to move away from thinking about trying to live the "perfect" life with everything all perfectly figured out and focus on the process and the people who make this journey worthwhile. And living is not something we can figure out how to do before we do it, anyway. As my first Religion and Philosophy teacher wrote to me once, "Jumping in the pool is part of learning how to swim." I stopped thinking that I had to get somewhere with all of this, that I needed to get answers right here and now, and I started to focus on being in this moment--being in all these conversations and communities. I was looking for answers, but in the process, I found so much more: I experienced new conversations, connections, and people. I connected with other people in ways deeper, more authentic, and oftentimes more vulnerable than before, even in seemingly ordinary moments. I also feel a sense of hope and gratitude when I make connections with others unexpectedly because I know that each individual's journey is so unique and meanders in its own ways and that much of these journeys happen in some kind of solitude, and yet our paths crossed at the most unexpected moments. When I moved away from seeking a sense of perfection, I began to see the meaning, awe, and joy I had previously overlooked.

So, in an interesting way, as I see it, an emphasis of Existentialism is an inherent kind of solitude that comes with being human, but at the same time, as I delved into Existentialism, I found a sense of community with the Existentialists I resonated with, which also broadly echoes my journey of finding community while exploring my questions and beliefs. To me, learning about Existentialism has captured this duality of solitude and community, which I see as essential to studying religion and philosophy as well as to my own journey. In Existentialism, I realized that together, we are alone and that also, in being alone, we come together.