There was a time that I was so desperate for meaning in my life that I begged God, with tears in my eyes, to bestow a passion or a purpose upon me. At that point, I had already won a full-ride scholarship to NYU, graduated college, traveled across Africa, Asia, and South America, gotten so sick I thought I’d be on medication for the rest of my life, had a healing crisis, fallen in and out of love with a hippie guru, gone broke, and was on the edge of my next great adventure. What I was searching for was not the next great ayahuasca journey or ecstatic dance retreat (though I did find that WOOFing was one of my most cherished experiences). No—I was looking for something that I would call my own. In the aimless soup of possibilities that is your early 20s, I was looking for an anchor, a belief in something that could not be shaken from me, and that would be my sole responsibility to take care of if I wished it to succeed.