We often imagine happiness as a burst—a warm rush after good news, the glow of an achievement, the thrill of something new. But that isn’t happiness. That’s pleasure. Joy. Satisfaction. Fireworks, not quiet.
Happiness, real happiness, is suspiciously quiet. It’s not a celebration. It doesn’t come with music or marching bands. It’s more like the absence of noise—the kind you didn’t know was blaring in the background until it stopped.
Most days, we’re wrapped in wanting. Wanting to be somewhere else. Someone else. A slightly improved version of ourselves. We’re not sad, necessarily—just in a low-grade negotiation with the moment. A persistent itch that says, “This could be better.”
But every now and then, the itch fades. There’s no urge to move, to scroll, to upgrade, to fix. You’re not waiting for anything, or running from anything. You’re just here. Present, not as a forced exercise, but because you have nowhere else to be—not physically, not emotionally, not existentially.
And that’s when happiness arrives. Not with a bang, but more like someone quietly letting themselves into your home and settling into the couch with a book.
Of course, the brain doesn’t celebrate this moment. It doesn’t say, “Ah, we’ve arrived!” It’s too busy looking for the next thing to optimize. But the truth is: happiness isn’t an arrival. It’s what’s left when the desire to arrive somewhere else disappears.
You don’t chase this state. You notice it—usually after it’s passed. Like realizing you were at peace only once it’s disturbed again. A traffic jam, a notification, a sudden memory of something undone—and the spell is broken. But for a while there, you were free. And that freedom came not from getting everything you ever wanted, but from wanting absolutely nothing.
It’s easy to miss it, especially in a world that rewards striving, that treats rest as laziness and stillness as stagnation. But in the absence of wanting, there’s a different kind of aliveness. One that doesn’t sparkle, but steadies. One that doesn’t shout, but stays.
And if you find yourself there, even briefly—don’t congratulate yourself. Don’t try to capture it. Just sit with it, like a cat that’s decided your lap is the best place in the world.
And maybe, just maybe, don’t move.