The Idea of Happiness (2:07 a.m. Thoughts)

I don’t think I’ve been chasing happiness.

I think I’ve been chasing permission.

There was a time in 2019, after a long day in Singapore, when I sat by a glass window overlooking the city. Everyone else was freshening up. The day was loud and full and beautiful. But that wasn’t the happiest part.

The happiest part was after.

I was tired. My legs were stretched toward the veranda. The city looked almost unreal in the quiet. And I remember feeling complete. Not excited. Not overwhelmed. Just complete.

Nothing was missing in that moment.

I didn’t need to prove anything. I didn’t need to post anything. I didn’t need to plan the next thing. I was just sitting there, and that was enough.

Lately, I’ve been wondering why that feeling feels so far away.

Life since then has felt like a race that forgot to include a finish line. There is always a to-do list. Even when the list is short, the mind is not. If I’m doing too much, I’m drained. If I’m doing nothing, I feel guilty. Somehow both extremes disturb me equally.

It’s strange how exhausting it is to constantly measure yourself.

Maybe happiness isn’t about adding more good moments. Maybe it’s about subtracting the internal voice that keeps auditing your existence.

I thought happiness would look like success or validation or some big reward. But if I’m honest, I’m not chasing awards. I’m chasing relief. I’m chasing that exhale that says, “You can relax now.”

But relax from what?

The guilt.

That’s the part I don’t say out loud often. Peace feels guilty. Sitting without earning it feels wrong. Reading a book without finishing everything else feels indulgent. A breezy evening with coffee and no urgency feels like something that should be justified first.

When did we start believing we have to deserve calm?

If you remove guilt from the equation, my version of happiness is almost embarrassingly simple. A cool evening. A warm cup of coffee. A book that doesn’t demand anything from me. No deadlines hovering in the background. No comparison. No internal clock.

Just being.

It’s not dramatic. It’s not cinematic. It’s not loud.

It’s quiet.

And maybe that’s why it feels so far away. Because quiet doesn’t trend. Quiet doesn’t look productive. Quiet doesn’t prove anything.

But that night in Singapore, sitting by that window, I wasn’t achieving anything. I wasn’t becoming anything. I wasn’t even trying to remember the day properly. I was just letting it settle inside me.

That settling felt like happiness.

Maybe happiness isn’t a peak. Maybe it’s a pause.

Maybe it’s not the fireworks. Maybe it’s the moment after, when the sky is dark again and you realise you’re not missing anything.

Maybe the reason I haven’t felt that way in a long time isn’t because life is bad, but because I haven’t allowed myself to stop racing long enough to feel complete.

And maybe happiness is less about finding something new and more about allowing what already exists.

I don’t think I want a bigger life.

I think I want a quieter mind.

And maybe that’s enough to start with.