Happiness is Just Around the Corner

I’ve always been naturally happy. That is one attribute I’ve never taken for granted. In much the same way that people say that, without your health you’ve got nothing, I feel the same about my happiness. Despite my own struggles with overthinking it—or what some might call high-functioning, or deceptively mild anxiety—I’ve long been secure in the happiness I feel from within. And among all things I must protect, my own happiness is at the top of the list. Mostly because I’m the only one able to fight for it.

And I’ve known that since one particular, somewhat mundane moment, in the middle of a lazy summer. A moment upon which my entire life has been based.

I was only ten years old. On my bike, in a worn camp t-shirt and gym shorts, slowly riding up and down our mile-long gravel driveway. I was waiting on my friend Kate to arrive for a sleep over, and her mom’s van would be pulling around the corner at any minute. As I swerved lazily back and forth along the gravel, I thought about our plans for that day. Kate and I had decided we would spend the entire afternoon down by the large creek that runs behind my house. And, as we always did, we would stay up late that night and talk. Perhaps prank call a few friends. My feet peddled faster the more I thought about how much fun we were going to have. My best friend, a hot summer day full of exploring in the fresh country air, and the thrill of staying up late. I stopped my bike a few yards from the end of the driveway. I was trying to process my excitement. Even at that young age I realized what I was feeling was something phenomenal. It was pure happiness. And I wanted it to last as long as possible.

I put out the kick stand of my bike, got off of it, and paced a while on the driveway. How could I keep this feeling? Kate was only staying one night, I realized. What could I do tomorrow to feel this full of hope, energy, and joy? I thought long and hard, searching my brain quickly as I wanted to get this figured out before I saw Kate’s van pull around the corner. Oh! I remembered! The following evening my dad was going to take us to the local baseball game, and my mom had agreed to pack a picnic. My mind kept going. What about the next day? What could keep this level up so that after Kate left, and after the baseball game, I’d always have something for the following day?

Before I could figure out what could follow the baseball game, I saw the van. I yelled out in excitement, jumped back on my bike, kicked up the stand, and peddled hard beside the vehicle, Kate laughing and waving from the back seat, as it made its way down our winding driveway toward my house. As I raced hard to keep up, I promised myself something: I would always find something to look forward to.

This became the practice of my youth: looking around for something to anticipate. The start of school, a slumber party, a movie, a birthday present, my sister coming home from college. I’d spend a few minutes each day consciously cataloguing what I was excited about. After a while, I didn’t have to stop and do it; I just became a person always looking forward to something. If there wasn’t something to anticipate, I’d create something. A new project, time with friends, a good book. This became so fluid that much of my marriage now centers on this concept: creating carrots in our relationship. A date, a trip, streaming a good show, trying a new recipe. We put incentives in our path to get us through tough, hectic work weeks—perhaps a bottle of wine on Friday to celebrate. Or something to anticipate so we can get through a very busy month—perhaps a babysitter and a night out.

This concept was the key to our success on a recent family vacation. Determined to finally have a good trip (an official overlay to all the others), I realized that the concept I discovered at the age of ten was the perfect way to make it happen. Jim and I went to The Dollar Store and purchased ten dollars’ worth of trinkets: slinkies, rubber balls, ponies with hair you could brush, coloring books, and a variety of other silly little prizes. On the eve of the trip, we told our girls they would get a prize for every block of time they were good—every hour during the car ride, each bathroom stop where they washed their hands well, stretches of time in which they didn’t subject us to one of their epic fits.

This was an intriguing idea to our children.

On the road, an hour into our trip, I handed each girl a little toy car. They squealed in delight and played happily in their car seats for the next hour, after which they were each given a tiny, plastic snake. These prizes became the pattern of the trip. In the beginning, my oldest was desperate to know what the next prize was, almost unable to control her excitement. But after a few, she became more patient with each trinket. On our way home, having earned eight new, tiny treats, Lowery made a comment as we turned the corner onto our street: “I really liked waiting for my prizes. I was the most excited right before you gave one to me.”

Before my students graduate, they always bemoan the fact that they will miss school. They claim it’s because they love learning—and that’s certainly part of it; people love who they are when they are learning. But a bigger part of it was the structured anticipation, which is the defining characteristic of school. Students look forward to the first day of class. They are eager to see who else will be there and what the teacher will be like. Soon, they find themselves immersed in school work, busy with readings and assignments. They look forward to getting the midterm over, and they anticipate Spring Break. Then they await the return to the classroom. Then they find themselves gearing up for finals week, and they can’t wait to celebrate the beginning of semester break. And this process repeats itself over and over. School is the template for having something to look forward to. It is no wonder students cringe when school comes to a close. In part because they will miss the learning, of course, but also because they will miss the anticipation of what is just around the corner.

When I entered the working world, I was saddened by how little there was to anticipate. There were the bank holidays, sure, but nothing like the structured anticipation I had spent the first 22 years of my life accustomed to. I sometimes wonder if I went back to graduate school as much for the field of study as I did for the regimented expectations. I’m sure it was both, but it’s also no surprise that I still haven’t left school. And I'm currently anticipating the first day of it.

At the end of that summer when I was ten years old, our daily newspaper was looking for kids to interview for a back-to-school feature. Every day for a week leading up to school, kids were asked about the fun they had over the summer. While playing at a friend's house, the editor of the paper stopped by to get our picture and a few quotes (doesn’t get more small town than that). She took a picture of my friend, and then of me, sitting on the porch swing. Then she took out a pad of paper and asked my friend what the most fun thing she did that summer was. She responded: “Our family’s trip to Disney World!” The editor then turned toward me and asked the same question, to which I responded: “I had fun every day.”

A few days later, when school started up, I overheard a few girls making fun of me for what I said in the paper. I brushed this off because, well, I was already understanding how to deal with mean girls. But also because I did have fun every day. I made fun every day. As a ten-year-old, I made the most important discovery of my life: Happiness was a choice I could make. I just have to find things that excite me, energize me, and fill me with joy. They are all around me. I just gotta keep turning the corner.




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