I used to want to be happy.
I used to chase happiness, never really knowing what it was or how I could get it. What did it mean to be happy? What did it look like? How did it feel?
In my 20’s, I assumed I’d attain happiness when I landed a husband and had a baby on my hip. Happy wife, happy life and all that.
In my 30’s, I was too deep in the reality of new marriage and having babies and raising babies to slow down and take the time to ask myself if I was happy. Happiness was a luxury and I just wanted sleep.
Today is my 46th birthday. Now that my babies are walking, talking humans who can wipe their own butts and sleep through the night, I’ve been thinking a lot about being happy.
Am I happy? Is being happy the goal?
I’ve seen happiness performed as a one woman show, hollow laughter entirely too loud and with something to prove. “Look at me! I’m so happy.” Except she wasn’t, and we all knew it. I’ve witnessed the sadness and pain that lurks beneath happy.
And I’ve realized that no, I don’t want to be happy. I want so much more than that.
Today I’m grateful for a life of contentment with pockets of joy. If happiness is for the outside, contentment is for the inside.
Contentment weaves through my days. I can feel it now as I sit typing this at my desk in my home office, Georgia lying at my feet. I feel it when my husband comes home from work and hugs me even before he puts down his towering pile of files. I feel it when my kids come running in from outside, sweaty and sunburned and talking over each other. And I feel it when it’s finally quiet and I sit down at our dining room table to work on my latest 1000 piece puzzle.
There’s joy, too. Little pockets of joy throughout my days that, if I catch the light just right, can feel like magic. Boring, ordinary, everyday magic.
It’s a content birthday. And it’s wonderful.
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