Yesterday I sat in the backseat of our family’s van or cruiser or however you’d like to call a big Mercedes. We were once again going to a restaurant for my mother’s birthday and of course family drama made the end of a birthday week (excuse my French) crappy. We rode in silence through the different streets full of different people of different ages and genders and nationalities. Each one had a story. It made me wonder: When people look at our family of four from far away, observing us, what do people think our story is? Did it look like I was worrying about what everyone thought of me? Worrying about college? The future? New York is full of people with different stories. I looked out the window as I neared the Brooklyn Bridge and looked at all the buildings’ lights and realized that in this city everyone had a different story but they all shared one thing: being worried. Even if you are the happiest person in the world with a positive attitude with a job you enjoy there is always something one worries about. Whether it be finding love in a world of 7 billion people or finding confidence in yourself, we all worry. It is a normal part of a human being and everyone should worry once in a while. Stress is normal. And as I pass through the streets of Manhattan, I realize that every person in every building in every car is all either starting a different chapter, in the middle of a chapter or ending a chapter in their lives. All these chapters contributing to each of their own stories.
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