I have always noticed when I am happy. I don’t believe I have taken it for granted.
I studied abroad in the Netherlands when I was nineteen, and walking back from the small grocery to our literal castle home, I remember the clarity striking: I am happy. I sunk into the feeling and into a smile. It was autumn; the sun was out; I was carrying a bag of Bugles and a pack of Stroopwafel. I was happy.
When I traveled with my family to San Francisco in fourth grade I watched the sea lions bask in the sun at Pier 39. I was with my mom, speaking to her in what I believed was a very grown-up way. I had an Aunt Annie’s pretzel for the first time in memory. It was beautiful and I was happy.
I watched the sunrise on Revere Beach on a cold March morning with a girl I loved. We sipped vodka from a flask, letting the cold air keep us awake after a night of talking in the dorm, letting the thrill of a small idea lead us to the first T of the morning to watch the sky turn pink.
Some days though – and I do not think today is one of them – I let these memories of happiness burn me instead of sustain me.
My wedding day was one of the happiest days of my life. Do I get to keep that, having lived everything that comes after? No, not in the same way.
A coworker took a professional headshot of me earlier this year and asked me to describe the last time I was truly happy (hoping the honest account of happiness would break my stiff smile). I talked about the sunrise on the beach with my friend but thought about how that friendship had changed. Did that memory change too?
Of course I am happy a lot. What’s that quote from Willie Nelson – “when I started counting my blessings my whole life turned around.” Blessings, happiness … if I count them in the same way I’ve counted scars I find myself overwhelmed with joy. I laugh out loud while reading or watching a show; I dance to Taylor Swift while cleaning; I mindfully look around my apartment and feel burst of joy and be surrounded by reminders of things I love – an abundance of Harry Potter, Spider-Man, books, and cats.
I’m happy the three to four times a week I have a Thundercloud club sandwich. When I take the first sip of my Diet Coke in the morning. When I use heat packs. When a coworker and friend stops by my office at work to say good morning and chat.
I am lucky that happiness is not a collection of a few key experiences, but a collection of small moments every day.
My boss told me a few years ago, “you are a naturally happy person.” I didn’t believe him. I was elbows deep in a depression and the great lie of depression is that it makes you believe that’s your default. Stripped of all your armour, wires exposed, that is who you are: dented and dangerous.
If you are not in a depression, this is the time to start believing yourself: you are a naturally happy person. Armor up in case the great lie comes knocking. (If you’re in it, believe others if you can’t believe yourself: depression is not who you are.)
I think I’m still figuring out what happiness means for me. After all, I’m still striving for more. I still want things I don’t have: things I may never have. I don’t go through my days singing upbeat musical numbers about my life (though that is a symptom of my lack of musical talent – otherwise I totally would). But I can say I’m happy in the pursuit.
With Love,
Natalie