Yeah, there was cultural semantics and language differences going on. But really my deeper irritation was the clanging reality of my heart. I felt estranged from the language and world of those beautiful people from the video. I often feel like a clogged up drain out of which overflows various types of sludge versus a flowing channel of the love of Jesus.

To begin my story, I must take you back to January 2015. I'm a broke 22-year-old music student looking for part time work, growing increasingly disheartened by rejection letters and having to say no to teaching positions too far to travel to by bus each week. The tip of the iceberg finally arrives as one of the drawers for my secondhand dresser starts to give way. My frustration grows as I try to force the front piece of the worn-out drawer back into place and I start crying—nothing is going my way and it is all so unfair! My mum suddenly marches into my room, points her finger at me and says, “Now you listen to me, all of this is happening because one day you told Jesus, thy will be done… And you meant it!” There is a moment of silence as I think about what she had just said. Then the front of the drawer falls off.

I almost feel embarrassed by how regularly I ask people to pray that I’d manage my time well. It’s not a bad thing to ask of God, but I wonder if beneath that prayer is my belief in a future when life will go at one speed. A future I could achieve by making the right decisions, saying the right yes-es and no-s. It would be a new way of living where I wouldn’t ever feel stressed or overwhelmed. I think I’m kind of always aiming for that era.

It was the socks that did it. Socks triggered my existential crisis. Apparently, you can discern between a Gen Z and a Millennial by their socks. Millennials wear ankle socks and Gen Z wear crew socks. I sit on the bed, look at my teeny tiny socks, and embarrassment nestles in my chest like a newborn. I don’t want to be like those Dads in the eighties who moved out to the suburbs and continued to wear their acid-washed jeans while the world moved on. But I don’t want to be like Regina George’s Mum in Mean Girls, trying so hard to fit in with teenagers.