What should I write when the friendship book asks: What makes you unique?

The eight-year-old girl with the pony always paused for a moment—it had to fit neatly on the line, after all. Short and sweet, what’s the best answer to give? My smile. That became my standard response.

Today, when I asked my boyfriend what made him unique, he just said:

„My fingerprint!“

Straight to the point!

„Well, a lot of people like football.“

I wondered if many people think like he does. This kind of authentic acceptance—that maybe I’m not all that unique in this world—I wish I had that, too.

So why are we encouraged from such a young age to find something that makes us unique?
The friendship book I filled out at eight certainly didn’t mean any harm, but ever since then, I’ve found myself wondering what truly defines me—why I am unique. And to be honest, without sugarcoating it, the thought of not being special in any way kind of eats me up inside.

How do you deal with the realization that you might not be special after all? How do you break it to your inner child, the one who dreams of making history one day, that for most people, that’s just not how life goes?

But if we take this thought to its logical end, there are actually quite a lot of people who do make it into the history books—so technically, even they aren’t that special anymore, right?

Well, maybe that thought gives me some temporary comfort. And honestly, I’d rather be a nobody than a Hitler or a Mussolini.

I believe that preventing adults from struggling with these thoughts starts with never planting the seed in the first place. We could do that by changing the question in friendship books from „What makes you unique?“ to „What do you have in common with your friend?“

After all, isn’t it beautiful to find common ground? Through that, our differences naturally emerge anyway. But instead of focusing on our uniqueness, shouldn’t we—unless we’re living as hermits in the woods—seek out the things we share with the wonderful people around us?