Happiness used to sound like fireworks. Bright, loud, impossible to miss. Now I think it is more like the soft hum of my fan at 2 AM. Quiet, easy to overlook, but there when you notice. I have chased big achievements, refreshed social feeds like a maniac, and still felt empty. Then a random chat with a cousin made me grin for hours. So either I am terrible at planning joy, or happiness has its own schedule.
Sometimes I make rookie mistakes: comparing my progress with strangers on the internet, promising myself I will only feel good after finishing five big tasks, forgetting lunch. None of these moves work, and yet I repeat them because the brain is stubborn. Lately I am practicing smaller check-ins. Did I stretch? Did I text the friend who makes me laugh? Did I step outside even if the sky is boring grey? When the answers are yes, happiness sneaks back in without drama.
"Maybe happiness isn't a treasure map. Maybe it's a doodle on the margin that proves you were here and you cared."
What keeps the feeling alive
Being useful helps. When I help someone debug code or share a poem that landed hard for me, happiness visits and sits down for tea. Purpose does not have to be world-changing; sometimes it is just showing up on time, or finally cleaning the desk. Imperfect progress still counts.
The weird paradox
The more I demand happiness, the faster it runs. The more I treat it like a shy friend, the more it drops by. So I am learning to leave the door slightly open. Happiness will swing through, spill coffee, leave early, and come back later. I am okay with that. Life stays interesting, and my fan keeps humming.