It's Okay

There’s an Eleanor Roosevelt quote on a poster in a portable classroom that hosts a high school creative writing class taught by a man who is deeply depressed. It says:

Happiness is not a goal... it's a by-product.

When I was an angsty teen, being unhappy was a large part of my identity. People would come along trying to fix me, change me, because they wanted to be happy and could not accept that I was satisfied with my misery and depression. All that did was validate that I wasn’t good enough. I wanted to not be good enough.

Not everybody wants to be happy. We each have different values and priorities, and it’s okay that happiness isn’t important to everyone. There is a social expectation that you should be happy, and if you’re not, you should be working on yourself. That expectation puts pressure on you to disguise your feelings. People ask how your day was, and you answer on autopilot, or you panic and can’t answer at all. There’s a “right” and a “wrong” answer, even though there’s nothing wrong with being unhappy. You can live a good, full, healthy, and satisfying life without ever pursuing joy.

It’s hard to find accepting spaces, and because of that, it can even be hard to admit to yourself when you don’t want to be happy. It feels like you’re doing something wrong if you’re not always trying to get better. Give yourself permission to prioritize what you want. It’s okay if that’s not joy.

I didn’t want to get better, back then. No one acknowledges that that’s okay. You are allowed to be okay with things the way they are. Those changes only happen when you want them. Other people can’t make you want it. Someday, maybe you’ll change your mind. Maybe you won’t. It’s okay.

To me, that quote was dismissive. It said you don’t have a choice in your happiness. You don’t have a say in your identity. Since then, its opposite has been a mantra to me. Happiness is a goal. Not a by-product. Every small choice to be happy now is an act of rebellion against the idea that joy will come later if you succeed by someone else’s standards.

During the COVID-19 quarantine, I changed a lot. I wanted to be happy, and I embodied that rebellious, intentional joy. I thrived in a new environment. I romanticized my mornings with steaming coffee and sunrises and vitamin-C drinks (which were secretly magical mental health potions). My classes provided enough structure that I was consistently making art and being creative. I wasn’t content with my misery anymore. I chased joy as a goal, passionately, and I really liked myself.

I cared about flowers, the sun, tarot, my friends, and joy. I cared about being romantic. I carried that passion with me for a long time. When I returned to school, I set hard boundaries, and I worked hard to be joyful about everything. I committed to being a brighter, warmer person because my values changed.

List Three Things

The most important ritual in my active pursuit of joy was paying attention. I would frequently ask myself to pick out three things around me that I loved. Smile, and take note of three things that are good. Three things that I was excited about and looking forward to. Three things that I appreciate from the last 24 hours. I would ask other people to list them, too. It was a grounding exercise in romanticizing everything.

At the end of college, I changed again. I live somewhere in between now. I am not satisfied with apathy, but I am not motivated to get better like I was. I don’t want to be depressed, but I don’t want to be happy. I fluctuate day by day. My mental health is a chore list rather than a passion.

Happiness, as a goal, is intentional. Without my passion, motivation, or intention, I just let it slip by. I don’t remember to enjoy things while they’re happening. It’s hard to romanticize things you hardly notice. People ask if you like what you’re eating, and you can’t answer because all you did was eat it.

My chore list is really just a way to mechanically remind myself to pay attention. I can set notifications on my phone to check something off at consistent intervals (or at least all at once in the evening, once I’ve delayed them).

• do a few exercises

  (baby versions are still good for staying active!)

• write a journal entry

  (from a list of prompts so that I don’t ruminate on things that make me unhappy)

• put a smile on my mouth

• list three things

• step outside for a minute

  (touch grass)

I go through these motions every day. And I am not here to preach that consistency is key or exercising every morning will fix your mental health—I know it sucks. Consistency doesn’t make me more motivated. I’m still in this in-between place. Checking in and reminding myself to pay attention is only a way of staying stable, grounded, and preventing my mental health from worsening. I would need a lot more passion in me to really make myself happy again.

Retroactive Joy

Because I don’t notice enough in the moment to enjoy and romanticize things, it’s very easy to fall into an apathetic habit of believing I don’t feel that joy and dismissing my own feelings. Life and mental health are plain boring sometimes. Am I unhappy or just bored? I might not be grounded enough to feel much in the moment, but there is still an inherent love and joy and value in what I experience, even when I’m not paying attention to it.

If you want to break out of the redundancy of self-care, check out The Spark in Your Relationship—With Yourself, but it’s also okay if you’re trudging through it one step at a time. Your small, passive feelings are just as important as your passionate ones.

When I first started my list ritual, I was recalling things that made me happy. Human negativity bias tries very hard to poison our memories. It’s very easy to think back, I might have enjoyed this, but it was too cold, and that ruined it.

When you want to be happy, you have to learn to do it anyway. Negative fixation is habitual. It’s the default. That doesn’t make it more honest, just easier.

So, I learned to reframe that question. I am recalling things that happened during my day, but I am not filtering them by the memory of joy. I am just remembering things that happened to enjoy the memory of them. Maybe I don’t know if I like what I’m eating, but when I recap my day before bed, I will enjoy that I ate it. I’m not so good at noticing flowers, but I will remember at the end of the day that I did go outside. Instead of remembering how I felt while I was there, I choose to feel warmly while I am remembering.

Living my life retroactively is sort of the best I can do. Maybe someday I will be content with unhappiness again and stop working so hard to keep things the same. That will be okay. Hopefully, I will someday want and prioritize joy again, too.

I have been, at times, a deeply passionate, vibrant person, and it can be hard to hold onto smaller feelings gently. They’re hard to romanticize. I am a poet, and making art from my feelings is what my tongue was made for. Being so disconnected from my feelings makes my art suffer. It’s easy to resent or dismiss myself for it.

For now, retroactive joy is still joy. It’s just as important to feel after the fact as in the moment. Small, subtle feelings are important. I have to remember that, and put it on an artistic pedestal.

My love for myself is my greatest inspiration, and I know I will still be here, supporting myself, through every change I face. I watch myself decide, every day, to smile once, before bed, on purpose, and I know that that small happiness has a cosmic importance, even if I don’t feel it. Living my life after the fact is still good. It’s still enough. It’s still okay.

About the Author

I’m an LYF administrator and wellness coordinator who works closely with the writing teams. I have a background in journalism, technical writing, poetry and creative prose.

Introspection and careful behavioral analysis have been my most refined skill. I take a deep care in observing and understanding the people around me. It’s an interest that is only fair or possible to do if you're 100% accepting of what you're going to find in people. To discover the things they can't admit because they dislike it in themselves is cruel and unkind unless you take on a particular perspective that at worst their worst traits are neutral.

I define myself by that perspective of radical acceptance, and I hope that you as readers can feel warmth in my work.