for a long time, happiness felt out of reach—like something loud and golden and far away.

in my head, happiness always looked like the color yellow: bright and shiny, something you couldn’t look away from.

i craved it. i chased it.

but no matter how hard i tried, i couldn’t find it.

i used to think happiness meant feeling amazing all the time. big joy. obvious joy.

now i know that’s not always possible—especially when you’re grieving, or healing, or just trying to make it through a regular tuesday.

so i started redefining it.

i started setting the bar lower. on purpose. not out of giving up, but out of survival. out of honesty.

i started noticing the micro-moments—the ones that don’t sparkle but still carry warmth.

the breeze in my hair. the sun on my face. sweatpants after a long day.

these are the moments where the pain feels less heavy. where i can breathe a little deeper. where life softens, just enough.

happiness isn’t always bright and shiny. sometimes it’s the soft cluck of chicken. sometimes it’s clean sheets, or a warm blanket, or the absence of struggle—even just for a minute.

this list is still growing.
so am i.