Welcome back to another Question of the Week here at The Confusing Middle! For those just joining us, these weekly philosophical adventures come courtesy of Gregory Stock’s The Book of Questions, a book that has provided me with 467 weeks’ worth of existential crises and deep thoughts—and we’re still going strong.

This week’s question is one that really makes you stop and think: What are the most important things (excluding children) you’ve brought into the world that would not exist without you?

Now, before we dive in, let’s acknowledge the elephant in the room. Stock specifically excludes children from this question, which is probably wise. Otherwise, every parent would have the same answer, and it would be about three sentences long. “I made humans. They’re pretty cool. The end.” But by taking procreation off the table, we’re forced to think about our other contributions to this spinning ball of rock we call home.

The Philosophy of Creation (Or: Am I Just Rearranging Deck Chairs?)

There’s something both humbling and terrifying about this question. On one hand, it assumes we’ve all brought something into the world. On the other, it forces us to confront what “bringing something into the world” actually means. Are we talking about completely original creations that sprang forth from our minds like Athena from Zeus’s head? Or does it count if we’ve taken existing ingredients and mixed them into something uniquely ours—like a really good sandwich, but for culture?

I’d argue it’s the latter. After all, even Shakespeare borrowed most of his plots. The magic wasn’t in the completely original story; it was in what he did with it. So with that generous interpretation in mind, let me share what I believe I’ve contributed to this world that wouldn’t exist without me.

Twenty Years of Digital Rambling

First and foremost, there’s this blog—The Confusing Middle. For over twenty years, I’ve been consistently showing up to this digital space, sharing my thoughts with whoever stumbles across them. That’s two decades of stories, observations, rants, reviews, and yes, Questions of the Week.

Think about that for a moment. When I started my original blog (then called Carp Dime), Facebook was still exclusive to college students, Twitter didn’t exist, and “social media influencer” would have sounded like something from a dystopian sci-fi novel. Yet here I am, still typing away, still hitting “publish” on posts that range from deeply personal reflections to analyses of why Die Hard is absolutely a Christmas movie (fight me).

Has The Confusing Middle changed anyone’s life? Doubtful. I’m not out here writing self-help manifestos or discovering the cure for existential dread. But I have created a documented chronicle of one person’s journey through early 21st-century life. I’ve shared my story—the good, the bad, and the embarrassingly awkward. I’ve analyzed the American Film Institute’s 100 greatest films (spoiler alert: some of them aren’t that great). I’ve compiled my own top 100 movies list, which sparked more debate in the comments than any political post ever could.

I’ve conquered the April A to Z Challenge multiple times, which, for those unfamiliar, involves posting every day in April with topics corresponding to each letter of the alphabet. It’s like CrossFit for bloggers—unnecessarily difficult, slightly masochistic, and you can’t stop talking about it once you’ve done it.

Four hundred and sixty-seven Questions of the Week means 467 times I’ve forced myself (and my readers) to think about something deeper than what to have for lunch. That’s 467 conversations started, 467 opportunities for introspection, 467 weeks where someone, somewhere, might have read a question and thought, “Huh, I never considered that before.”

Is it world-changing? No. But it exists, and it wouldn’t without me. Every word, every post, every terrible joke that didn’t land—they’re all mine. In a world of algorithmic content and AI-generated everything, there’s something beautifully stubborn about maintaining a personal blog for twenty years. It’s like tending a garden that only a few people ever visit, but you keep watering it anyway because the act of creation itself has value.

The Seeds We Plant

The second major contribution I can claim is harder to quantify but potentially more significant. For a good chunk of my career, I worked in mental health support, specifically as a Therapeutic Day Treatment Counselor. If that title sounds fancy, let me deflate that balloon immediately—it basically meant I worked one-on-one with kids in classroom settings who were dealing with behavioral and emotional challenges.

These were kids who needed more support than a traditional classroom could provide. Kids who were angry at a world that had often failed them. Kids who were trying to navigate emotions too big for their small bodies. Kids who just needed someone to see them, really see them, and believe they could be more than their worst moments.

Here’s the thing about that kind of work: you rarely get to see the ending. It’s not like a movie where you stick around for the credits and maybe a post-credits scene. These kids would work through their immediate goals, hopefully make some progress, and then move on—to different programs, different schools, different states. I never got to see any of them achieve all of their therapeutic goals. I never got to see them graduate high school, go to college, get married, or become the successful adults I hoped they’d become.

But I was there for crucial moments. I was there when Mike (not his real name) finally managed to get through an entire day without an outburst. I was there when Maddie (also not her real name) read her first complete sentence without breaking down in tears. I was there when David (you get the pattern) realized that asking for help wasn’t a sign of weakness.

Did I bring these kids into the world? Obviously not. But I’d like to think I brought something into their worlds—tools, strategies, moments of peace, the knowledge that at least one adult believed in them unconditionally. These are things that wouldn’t have existed in quite the same way without me. Another counselor would have brought different tools, different approaches, different moments. The specific constellation of support I provided was unique to me.

I think about them sometimes, these kids who are now adults or approaching adulthood. I wonder if they remember the breathing exercises we practiced. I wonder if they still use the counting strategies when they feel overwhelmed. I wonder if, in their moments of struggle, they remember that someone once told them they were capable of amazing things.

I’ll never know for sure, and that’s okay. That’s the nature of planting seeds—you don’t always get to see the garden.

The Accumulation of Small Things

When I really think about it, most of what we bring into the world isn’t grand or revolutionary. It’s the accumulation of small things that wouldn’t exist without our specific presence in the universe.

It’s the in-joke you started with your friend group that still makes everyone laugh five years later. It’s the recipe you modified so many times it became something entirely new. It’s the advice you gave that someone still remembers. It’s the comment you left on someone’s post when they really needed encouragement. It’s the time you introduced two people who became best friends or even got married. It’s the tradition you started that your family now can’t imagine the holidays without.

I think about all the conversations I’ve had, all the connections I’ve made, all the tiny ripples I’ve sent out into the world. Each blog post is a message in a bottle, thrown into the digital ocean. Most wash up unnoticed, but occasionally, someone finds one at exactly the right moment.

The Ongoing Project

Here’s what I’ve come to realize: bringing something into the world isn’t always about creating a masterpiece or leaving a monument. Sometimes it’s about consistency. Sometimes it’s about showing up. Sometimes it’s about being the person who keeps doing the thing even when it seems like nobody’s paying attention.

Will I continue blogging for as long as I have hands to type and a brain to think? Absolutely. Because that’s what I bring into the world—the ongoing project of documenting one life, asking questions, sharing thoughts, and creating a space where people can occasionally pause and think about something different.

It’s not much, but it’s mine. And in a world of seven billion people, having something that’s uniquely yours—something that wouldn’t exist without you—feels pretty significant.

Your Turn

So now I turn the question over to you: What are the most important things (excluding children) you’ve brought into the world that would not exist without you?

Maybe you’ve written songs that only exist because you combined those particular notes in that particular way. Maybe you’ve started a business, created art, built furniture, or designed gardens. Maybe you’ve been the friend who always organizes the reunions, the colleague who mentors newcomers, or the neighbor who started the community garden.

Or maybe, like me, your contributions are harder to measure but no less real—the accumulation of small acts, consistent presence, and hypothetical seeds planted in metaphorical soil you’ll never see bloom.

Whatever it is, I’d love to hear about it in the comments. After all, one of the things I’ve brought into the world is this space for conversation, and it only really comes alive when you participate.

Until next week, when Gregory Stock will undoubtedly make us question our life choices once again, this is Aaron, still here in The Confusing Middle, still typing, still creating, still bringing whatever I can into the world.

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The Question of the Week is a regular series on The Confusing Middle, featuring questions from Gregory Stock’s The Book of Questions. Have thoughts on this week’s question? Leave them in the comments below, and check back next Saturday for another existential adventure.