When I was twelve, on the edge of adolescence, I found myself walking alone around my neighborhood, overcome with melancholy, contemplating the uselessness of all human activity, and feeling a longing for death. “What is the purpose of life?” I asked myself. Although I was not religious at the time, I heard what seemed a distinct and separate voice in my thought: “You may not ever know the purpose of life. But life is hard for everyone, and you can help make it easier for other people.”
From that point on, I had a clearer sense of purpose. In whatever I did, it was my role to be of service—to ease suffering and not contribute to it.
After college, I went into teaching, first in a traditional high school and then in an alternative high school for teenagers who were at risk for dropping out of school. I was satisfied with my work. One group of students, however, forced me to understand more deeply what it means to be of service.
