For a very long time, I was fixated on the idea of happiness. I was bitter and very sad about a lot of things, and I would often catch myself wondering if maybe I’d ever be happy, and even if I was the kind of person who could be happy, like it was a genetic trait.
It seemed like this illusive feeling of contentment or joy that other people seemed to come across so easily. It’s always easier to look at things in negation to what we do or don’t have.
But even at my darkest and bleakest, there were still these small pockets of happiness that would crop up from time to time. I just never actually took the time…
View original post 1,072 more words