My nephew, Fox, entered the world a fresh bundle of wiry limbs, with barely a thought in his head but a wild hunger for air and milk and warmth, same as most little ones—just the same. Even though he couldn’t say a word, feed himself, dress himself, or care that he was undressed, he was loved so tremendously just for being there, alive and crying. My family and I gathered around him, with hearts about as full as hearts can be, and wondered who he was, who he would be.

Three months later, Fox enjoys to poo, pee, eat, sleep, be held, make noises, and move his arms and legs with no particular goal in mind. We are kindred spirits.

And it’s strange, though babies are so vastly similar from one to the next, how delightful they are regardless. Today at the park, beneath the shade of a tree whose leaves could barely hold back the sun’s loud and bright rays, my sister and I heard Fox giggle for the first time. We were making farting noises with our lips (still one of my favorite pastimes), watching Fox smile and coo with that innocent fascination that babies have, when a giggle bubbled up and burst forth from his lips—so much like his father’s­—and my sister’s jaw dropped and her eyes got wide. “Did you hear that?” she asked me, marvel animated in every part of her face. “That was a real laugh.” Of course I had heard. I want to hear that laugh every passing day now.

Nearly every baby on this earth has a first laugh, captivating parents in its wake, but how tragic if that laugh never comes. We love laughter, that odd expression of enjoyment. It is one of the many things that bring us together.

Fox laughed, same as most babies—just the same—and thank God for that.

You and I laugh, too. It’s one of the millions of things on a long, dull list of things that make us magnificently similar. The list also includes, among other things: pooping, peeing, eating, sleeping, being held, making noises, anger, love, death, compassion, loneliness, and togetherness, to name very few, and a vague few at that. If not for that long, dull list, there is no such thing as life as we know it.

Of course we’re unique, too, but that’s obvious. There’s no need to prove that to anyone. There’s no need to even prove it to ourselves. The truth is that being unique is part and parcel with being a human. Our minds are strange in their power and perception, in their individual tastes and range of experience. On the other hand, our bodies are just strange—simultaneously gross (astoundingly so, the more you reflect on it) and beautiful. If I take into account my good friend Drew, and why I love him (and am sometimes annoyed with him), thousands of things come into my mind that when taken together will only ever come out to be Drew.

Being unique is easy. So easy, you don’t even have to think about it, if you so chose. Not that that stops any one of us from taking a few moments a day to prove it. The odd thing about our uniqueness, our self-expression, is that we can spend an entire life searching for it, even though we had it from the beginning. We had it when we were still a fresh bundle of wiry limbs.

Similarities are easy too. The difference, of course, is that they’re far more important. Our unique little oddities are really peripheral to our grand similarities. Thank God for the long, dull list, otherwise I couldn’t have late-night conversations with my friends. No one would be able to sympathize and comfort me when I’m down. Family gatherings wouldn’t fill my heart to the brim with gratitude and love. I wouldn’t have gotten to see my sister’s face when little Fox laughed. I would rather have all those things than be distinguished from a crowd.

We are not as unique as we think we are, and that’s just the best. We are so similar, and because of that, we can be together.

Will Montei

Will Montei is currently in pursuit of a Masters in Teaching at Seattle Pacific University. He has been writing for the post calvin since it began in 2013.