Iocheahy-uh-kee

n. The anxiety of being an individual. Imagine how much courage it takes to come into this world all by yourself. Nine months in symbiosis—then suddenly, at birth, adrift in the open ocean, fighting to catch your breath. You're on your own.

You never get used to being an individual. How strange that you're born alone and die alone. That you alone carry your body and your name. Nobody else can feel your pain or share an unforgettable dream.

How strange to float in a sea of billions, only a few of whom you'll ever know. You can follow the crowd but never quite relax. You're free to break out on your own, but you'll look over your shoulder, wondering why this road is less traveled.

Yet strangest are those moments when you transcend your singular nature—swept up by a choir, sitting up all night talking freely with a friend. Such is the curse of being an individual: you may never get comfortable. But know you're in good company. Ask any of us—you're not alone.