Throughout my eighteen years on Earth, I have been trying to make sense of life, and I have always believed that if I thought hard enough about it, I could. A common idea is that the older you get, the more you learn. I quickly realized that a side effect of continuously acquired knowledge is a sudden realization of how much you don’t know. It seems that with every new experience, every new fact, I become more aware of just how little I know about the world. At first, I thought this feeling of insignificance was unique to me. But after being educated in the teachings and traditions of a wide variety of religions, everything from Wicca to ancient Egyptian theology to Judaism to Hinduism, I came to realize that many religions were based off the innate human desire for knowledge. People like knowing things: how humans came to be, what happens after we die, what the meaning of life is. Without answers to these questions, how can there be a standard for how to live, a morality? How could a society with no answers about life not descend into anarchy?

By the age of nine, I had my entire life planned. I would graduate high school with an International Baccalaureate diploma, go to Harvard to become a federal agent specializing in human trafficking prevention, adopt two identical twin Japanese daughters (not as babies though; babies were icky), marry a doctor, and die wealthy, old and happy. I enjoyed this path because there were no twists and turns; I could see straight ahead, all the way to the finish line. People would ask me about my plans, and then tell me, “People always have plans when they are younger, but things don’t usually turn out exactly as we plan.” I would respond with an indignant, “Well, yes, but of course MINE will.” I did not see any reason my life would not proceed through the path I had so carefully laid out. It was such a nice, straight path, with no bumps. What could possibly go wrong?

The first twist forcefully injected into my simple path was my parents’ divorce. My plan for high school was soon altered, as I found myself having to juggle academics, extracurricular activities, and added responsibilities stemming from a broken home, including raising my little brother and my juvenile-behaving parents. I tried my hardest to stay in the I.B. program to not disrupt my grand plan, but soon after the start of my junior year, I found myself with six hours of homework to do one night. I made sure to get started right after I got home so I could be in bed by midnight. Then I started noticing the signs of a major fight brewing between my dad and my stepmom. I quickly herded my little brother into his room to wait out the storm, but I was called out into the living room by my parents to act as a witness. Instead of being able to do my homework, I found myself sitting in the living room, still as a terrified rabbit in fear of attracting the wrath of the fighting adults. Because these fights were a common occurrence, it quickly became clear to me that staying in the I.B. program would not be an option. Later, financial restrictions prevented my going to Harvard, further derailing my initial life plan. What had started as a clear, straight path for my life quickly evolved into a complex maze. With no exit.

One of my favorite books is Looking for Alaska by John Green. I met Ellie Williams* at the beginning of my first year at Arizona State University, and one of the first things I enjoyed about her was that she loved that book too. We became fast friends and even bought a compound bow together. One weekend, we drove up to the ranch I work at to shoot our bow. One night we spent almost three hours looking up at the stars. I always get philosophical when I look at the stars; there is just something about looking up at infinity that makes me remember how little I know about the universe, and how very tiny and insignificant I am. After a few minutes of silent star gazing, Ellie suddenly looked over at me and quoted a line from the book: “How will I ever get out of this labyrinth?” At that moment I had an epiphany. Much of that book deals with the question of “which is the labyrinth: life or death?” Suddenly I knew: life is the labyrinth. Life is an inescapable maze, and the question of how to escape it has encouraged the foundations of religions since the beginning of civilization.

Our lives are full of twists and turns, false starts and ends, and insurmountable obstacles from which we can never escape. To contend with this reality, almost every civilization since the beginning of time has developed their own form of reasoning behind the madness. Taking a wrong turn or having to backtrack isn’t quite so maddening when we perceive it as part of a grand plan: our destiny laid out by our creator(s). It’s not knowing why or how humanity came to be that scares us, and makes the labyrinth seem inescapable. Nearly all religions have some sort of explanation for what happens to us after we die, an attempt to answer the age-old question: “How will I ever get out of this labyrinth?” I believe this is why religions are so widespread, even in the age of science. People just cannot accept the idea that there is nothing beyond the labyrinth; the idea of an afterlife gives them hope in finding the labyrinth’s exit, or a meaning of life that is beyond the tangible. Once, when I asked my older sister why she is the lone believer in religion in my family of agnostics, she said, “Because I have to. Otherwise, what is the point of life?” Not “Because I believe in God,” not “Because I believe in creationism over evolution,” but “Because I have to.” Because she needs something to believe in, just to get through the day. While I have never believed in religion, I definitely understand the hopelessness that can accompany not believing in anything beyond this life. But at the same time, if you focus too much on the afterlife, are you really living?

And do we really want to escape the labyrinth? Would life be as exhilarating without all the unplanned twists and turns? What if we could see our entire lives mapped out in long, straight, or even crooked lines from when we are young? There would be no variation. Sometimes things that can first appear as misfortunes turn out to provide unseen opportunities. Instead of spending hundreds of thousands of dollars to go to Harvard, I got a full ride scholarship at Barrett, the Honors College at ASU, and have made some of my best friends here. The point of life is to enjoy our travels through the labyrinth, not ponder over how to escape it, or fatigue ourselves worrying about what happens after we leave the labyrinth. Because maybe, just maybe, we never do.

*= name changed to protect anonymity