Happiness Is Ticking “Write a Blog Post” off My To-Do List

About a year after I should have, I hit a bit of a low patch. Cookie was over a year and a
half old, so it was perhaps post-post-partum, but there were many factors. It was winter, my
least favourite season; I had just launched my freelance career, but hadn’t picked up much
work; I was questioning my role in my household, my social circle, and my industry; I was
uncomfortable with my new status as a mother. It wasn’t serious. I didn’t seek therapy, I just
upped my dosage of happy vitamins. Not sure if that helped, since the eventual improvement
in mood probably had more to do with suddenly having more work than I knew what to do with
and not having the time or energy to think about my level of satisfaction. You see, I find I only
become dissatisfied when I have time to think about how I have almost everything I want and
yet still am not happy. When I don’t have time, things are fantastic, at least as far as I know.

My husband was naturally concerned, and at one point suggested I try reading The Happiness
Project by Gretchen Rubin. I resisted; I’m not a self-help kinda gal. I bought other books with the
bookstore gift card he gave me. I sidestepped the book at the family Christmas book exchange.
But then I bought it for a friend who I thought could use a boost, and I happened to scan it. Of
course, it looked just about right for me.

The author was kind of in the same position as I had been. Things were fine, but then one
day she realized that they could be so much better, and that she couldn’t really say she was
happy. And why shouldn’t she be happy? So she started studying happiness — what others had
discovered or speculated about it or done in an attempt to attain it — and set out a plan to follow
over the course of a year.

She struggled at times to defend the value of such an enterprise. It seemed such a problem of
privilege, or a shallow wish, to be happy. Which is something I struggle with every time I think
about being unhappy. Who am I to be dissatisfied with my lot? So what if I’m not loaded or living
in California or two inches taller? My complaints are insignificant and non-life threatening. Just
the fact that Rubin acknowledged her discomfort with her project made me buy in. (The answer
is: if you could be happier just by putting your mind to it, why the hell wouldn’t you be? Also,
your happiness affects the happiness of those around you, so if you want your loved ones and
co-workers to be happy, you’ll work on your own happiness. And then there are the effects of
unhappiness on health and productivity, and therefore the economy…)

Rubin set up cumulative resolutions, adding a few each month, and I was fascinated by the
areas she identified as those that she needed to work on to improve her happiness. Some of
them had no relevance to my life, but others set off alarm bells in my head: “This is something
that makes you unhappy!” Like failure. In one month that she dedicated to work-related
happiness, she resolved to find fun in failure. Alarm bells.

I dread failure. I react physically just recalling a math test I failed in Grade Two. I taste bile
anticipating failure when I consider activities potentially hazardous to my self-esteem. But,
as Rubin points out, if you take chances and allow yourself to fail, you’re more likely to try
more things and have more success. Logical, I know, but fear of failure and humiliation and
disappointment normally forbid me from doing anything that would threaten my pristine (and
deadly boring) reputation.

So I challenged myself to court failure. I had written a story, and a friend was interested in
publishing it. I didn’t want anyone to read it, but in the interest of failure I braced myself and
sent it to him anyways because he was supportive. Plus, it was something he was looking for,

so there was a slim chance of success. The problem was that it had a significant grammatical
characteristic that most publishers shy away from. Which I reminded him of several times.

After weeks of procrastination and premature negotiation (both on his part, not mine; after all,
I was embracing failure), he rejected it…because of the significant grammatical characteristic.
Well, duh. And guess what? Failure was fun. It wasn’t really my failure, after all; he had failed
to listen. He loved the writing otherwise, so I succeeded as a writer. A failed writer, that is. This
time, failure didn’t sting so much, and it gave me confidence for more attempts. Happiness is
confidence in my abilities.

Rubin spent another month focusing on family, and part of that involved appreciating time
with her children more. Of course I knew this was important — always alarm bells with this
one — but it didn’t really hit me until Tightrope Mama’s recent post, “Why Are We Rushing?” It won’t be long indeed until they no longer want to cuddle with us, so I’ve begun to
embrace hour-long bedtimes. I now snuggle with Cookie in a bed that’s not meant to support my
weight and we tell stories and sing songs and talk about our day, and eventually she says, “You
can leave now.” And everyone’s happy. I’m dying to relax at the end of a day of chasing after
her or tethering myself to my laptop, but miraculously I’ve discovered that letting go of the free
time I’m missing out on and just appreciating this time with her is just as relaxing and rewarding.
Sure, our half-hour three-stories-and-we’re-out sleep schedule has completely gone out the
window, but it won’t be long until she’s holed up in her room not bothering to say goodnight
at all. Happiness is a cuddly child. Happiness is knowing I’ve given my child everything she
needed.

I’m not about to embark on a happiness project. I’ve got enough unfinished projects on the go
already (another resolution), and although I’m trying to embrace failure, I don’t need to go out
and actively pursue it. So instead I’m gradually working on resolutions as I become aware of
them. And trying to become aware of them, which I think is part of my problem. Happiness is a
work in progress.

For more on The Happiness Project, visit www.happiness-project.com.

East End Mama