Chasing Happy

A few weeks ago, I gave myself space for a practice I use quarterly: free association. Originally a psychoanalytic tool, free association allows a person to speak their thoughts without filtering or censoring, letting the subconscious step forward without interruption. For me, it's become a valuable exercise in uncovering themes or internal narratives that might otherwise go unnoticed.

During this recent session, I allowed my mind to wander. No agenda. Just awareness. I jotted down whatever surfaced, knowing I’d come back to examine it more deeply later.

One memory came into sharp focus.

I was maybe five years old, based on my eye level in the scene. I stood outside the entrance to our 1980s galley kitchen—dark brown cabinets, patterned yellow laminate flooring. My mom was on the phone, pacing, speaking rapidly. To my left, I was petting Happy, my English pointer puppy. She was named after my godfather, Hap, and was my constant companion. Her presence was grounding, reliable, and safe.

As I revisited that moment, one question emerged:

“Why this memory? Why now?”

The answer didn’t come right away. But as I sat with the image, it revealed itself.

I wasn’t longing for the dog.

I was longing for Happy.

Not the puppy—but the emotion. Happiness. Stability. Safety. Certainty.

But here’s the danger: longing for happy can become a trap.

We can spend our lives chasing a version of happiness that is sanitized, constant, and unrealistic. A “happy” that’s devoid of struggle, unpredictability, or pain. And when we do that, we risk missing the real emotional landscape of our lives.

That night, over a glass of wine, my husband and I talked about Brave New World, that old dystopian novel by Aldous Huxley that seems eerily relevant now. The book paints a society that achieves its “happiness” through instant gratification, numbing discomfort, and avoiding anything that might cause inner unrest. Emotions are managed chemically. Pain is abolished. Pleasure is the goal.

Sound familiar?

I see this all the time, not just in culture, but in the therapy room. A client tells me their goal is “to be happy.” And I challenge it. Every time.

Because happiness is a feeling.

It’s fleeting.

It lacks depth.

When we chase happiness as the destination, we end up disappointed or exhausted or both. Instead, I invite clients to consider something more stable, more resilient: contentment.

So, what is contentment?

Contentment is the ability to remain steady in the middle of difficulty. It’s the quiet, internal confidence that says, “I can face this.”

It’s not the absence of pain; it’s the presence of inner anchoring.

Contentment is built on truth. It allows us to see our strengths and our shortcomings, and not be destroyed by either. It beckons us toward growth, not escape. It offers security, even when life is anything but secure.

So as I sat with my memory and the emotions it stirred, I had to get honest:

Why was I longing for “happy”?

I knew it was temporary. I knew it wouldn’t last. So what was really going on?

The truth?

I was seeking easy.

Life had started to feel like a dogpile; twelve football players stacked on top of me, each one named Anxiety, Uncertainty, or Pressure. I didn’t want happy. I wanted out. I wanted relief.

But that’s not what the memory was showing me. It wasn’t about “easy.”It was about safety.

That five-year-old version of me wasn’t just petting a dog. She was reaching out for something grounding. Something constant.

So, what did I do with that realization?

I looked my fear in the eye and told it the truth:

We don’t hit the easy button.

Nothing meaningful, nothing lasting, ever comes from that shortcut.

Instead, I found my footing:

• In my faith.

• In the steady presence of my husband and sons.

• And in the quiet, unwavering belief that I am here for a reason.

We’re sold the lie that happiness is the ultimate goal. But real life, the kind worth living, isn’t built on a string of highs. It’s built on depth, truth, and the hard-earned stability that comes from walking through discomfort without running from it. If you’re chasing happiness and finding yourself more exhausted than fulfilled, maybe it’s time to stop running. Start anchoring. Choose contentment. It won’t shout like happiness does, but it will hold you steady when the noise fades.

And thanks, Happy, for showing up. I haven’t seen you in over 40 years, but somehow, you still bring me comfort. You reminded me that safety doesn’t always come from escaping, but from knowing where to reach when things get hard.