When I was seventeen, I drove my parents’ conversion van home from a party with a six-pack in my system and a freshly-dented bumper on a stranger’s parked car. The officer who arrived at our house decided not to charge me with driving under the influence. He told me to go inside and sleep it off. I have thought about that night for thirty-five years.

This episode is an essay reading. The material is personal. Three stories from my reckless adolescence in Richmond, Virginia, told plainly. The drinking and driving. The LSD afternoon at a Goochland County rock quarry. The way my parents finally put me in rehab and the way I was outraged when they did. I survived my adolescence on a margin of unearned protection that I did not deserve, and the survival did not feel, then, like the gift it was.

The essay turns to the strangest passage in the Hebrew Bible. Genesis 32. Jacob wrestling the man who turns out to be God, holding on through the dislocated hip, refusing to let go without the blessing. The man gives Jacob a new name. Jacob leaves with a permanent limp. The limp is, in the strange grammar of the story, the proof that the blessing was real.

The argument the essay makes is the argument the book it comes from rests on. The crisis of being nobody is not solved by the world finally recognizing you. The world is busy. The crisis is solved by the wrestling. The wrestling produces a self that can speak. The wrestling produces the work. The wrestling produces a person who has something to say because they have done the work of finding out what they are.

The blessing is real. The limp is yours forever. So is the name.

→ The Crisis of Being Nobody: forthcoming late 2026 from Crossroads Press → Submit a project: crossroadspublishing.group/inquire → Subscribe to The Descent: chadprevost.substack.com → Book a discovery call: Calendly here

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