The Girl Who Cried Happy

It’s hard to talk about being happy. It’s hard to BE happy, too, but I’d argue that having a legitimate conversation about the authenticity of my own happiness is a whole lot more of a barricade than actually existing as a happy person.

Now, becoming happy? I have no idea if that’s hard, because my brain has (kindly) blocked out the last 27 years of my life so that I never have to remember again what it was like to be a miserable curmudgeon.

It’s like what happens when pregnant ladies crap out babies without an epidermis (or whatever it’s called) – your brain is great at forgetting the terrible stuff it might one day have to deal with again. Survival!

Or something.

Annnnyway… In my experience, conversations about happiness go one of four ways. If you’re UNhappy, people will either respond by:

A) prattling on with an incredibly helpful story about how much MORE unhappy THEY are, in an effort to provide some really insightful and humbling perspective, or

B) puking some hackneyed adage about green grass or clouds and storms or fish in the sea, and they’ll likely forget the point they were trying to make in the first place and offer you tea and crumpets because they’re probably your grandma (since grandmas love inspirational metaphors).

On the other hand, if you’re happy and bring it up, people want to:

A) know your “secret,” because obviously this is a freak accident and in no way the result of hours and years of tactical, minute adjustments to your daily routine and inward outlook, or

B) prattle on with an incredible helpful story about how much MORE happy THEY are, in an effort to provide some really insightful and humbling perspective.

The conclusion to be drawn from all this is that nothing useful comes from a conversation about happiness. I don’t think this has as much to do with the prattlers as it does with the prattled-at; after all, if you’re going to go on about how happy you are, you best expect the people to whom your “going on” is directed to have a few things of their own to go on about. Once you open that arrogant door, every narcissist within earshot will barge through and start condescending about how it could be worse (or better)(or completely different, since narcissists aren’t great listeners).

Being happy is something to do, not something to brag about. Happiness is what makes a person beautiful, and talking about how beautiful you are isn’t the kind of honey you want to spread unless you’re purely looking for flies.

Over the past (passed? I can never get those two right. If only I knew some English teachers!) six or so months I’ve slowly (and primarily by accident) improved every part of my life so that I’m authentically happy, which I don’t actually want to talk to anyone about… which is incredibly unlike me because I have a god damned website that is LITERALLY DEVOTED TO ME TALKING ABOUT ME SO WHY WOULD I NOT WANT TO TALK ABOUT HOW HAPPY I AM?!)


It’s not fun to talk about, just like being beautiful isn’t fun to talk about. Hey everyone, did you notice how gorgeous I am? Because I am god damn stunning and I’d appreciate it if everyone could pause and take note of that. 

::Middle finger emoji::

My happiness is a crossroads; being at this crossroads is complicated and a little shitty because half the time I’m worried I’m being a dick about how great my life is and the other half of the time I’m just thinking about that godawful Britney Spears movie that literally no one liked.

So aside from this awkward, scattered post, I’m not going to talk about it; I’m going to continue to be it, and let it grow when others are gracious enough to let me know they see it.

Like beauty, or strength, or spinach in your teeth.


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