"Just be happy," they said.

As if happiness were a switch to be flipped. As if I hadn't spent twenty-something years trying to locate that switch in the dark, fumbling with circuits I didn't understand.

Let me tell you about happiness, that elusive state I've studied from a distance like some rare astronomical event. I've got a carefully curated playlist for every conceivable mood, but happiness? A foreign language.

Learning to be happy, you ask? What is there to learn?

Well, for starters, everything.

---

My name is Maina, and I've always been terrified of happiness. Not in the dramatic, gothic novel way, more in the "constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop" way. Every moment of joy came with a mental countdown timer. Three, two, one... and now the universe will balance its ledger.

My AI therapist says I "catastrophize." I prefer to think of it as "emotional preparedness."

The problem started, I think, when I was promised a bike if I was top of my class at the end of year examination.
I was.
The bike?
'Next time, if you're top of the class, we promise.'
I stayed top of my class. The bike never came. Most of my friends had bikes.
---

"You know what your problem is?" My roommate Ken said one time, "You're so afraid of being disappointed that you're disappointed in advance."

I privately added it to my growing collection of insights about myself. Right next to "emotionally constipated" (thanks, Christine) and "overthinks overthinking" (thanks, Ivy).

---

The first lesson in happiness came unexpectedly. I'd been promoted at work, something I'd wanted for months. Instead of celebrating, I immediately spiraled into anxiety about the increased responsibilities. Classic.

But that evening, walking home in the rain without an umbrella (because of course I'd forgotten it), I stopped fighting it. Just stood there getting soaked, water streaming down my face, and started laughing. A woman under an awning looked at me like I was insane.

Maybe I was. But for three minutes, I wasn't thinking about failing at my new position or how long until my boss realized I was an impostor. I was just... there. Wet. Alive.

That night, I wrote in my journal:

Lesson #1 - Sometimes happiness sneaks in through the bathroom window while you're busy guarding the front door.

---

The second lesson came harder. I'd been seeing someone, Abby, an illustrator with a laugh that made me forget my carefully rehearsed self-deprecating jokes. Three months in, I was already preparing for her inevitable realization that I was, at best, a temporary diversion.

"Why do you do that?" she asked one night.

"Do what?"

"Pull away right when things are good. Like you're afraid I'm going to... I don't know, discover you're secretly terrible?"

I mumbled something witty and deflective. Later that night, unable to sleep, I stared at her ceiling and wondered why I always constructed elaborate escape routes from happiness, as if it were a burning building rather than the destination.

The relationship didn't last, ironically not because she left, but because I never fully arrived. But before it ended, I learned something:

Lesson #2 - Love isn't a finite resource that runs out if you use it too freely.

---

My sister's kid, Kai, taught me the third lesson. 1 year old and already wiser than his uncle. I watched him build an elaborate tower of blocks, complete with a precarious bridge that defied several laws of physics.

"Aren't you worried it's going to fall?" I thought.

He looked at me like I'd suggested the sky might be green.

Then he knocked it down himself, giggling maniacally at the crash.

Lesson #3 - Sometimes the joy is in the building, not the keeping.

---

Last week, I did something ridiculous. I got a cat. A delicate little cat, scared of the light.

My friend Ken raised an eyebrow when he saw it. "You..? A pet?"

"I'm turning over a new leaf," I said, then winced at my own pun.

But the truth was, I wanted something that required care, that might die if neglected but might thrive if tended. Something that represented possibility rather than certainty.

So far, we're both still alive.

---

I'd like to tell you I've mastered happiness, that I've graduated from the school of joy with honors. But that would be a lie, and I'm trying to be more honest these days, even with myself.

The truth is messier. Some days I still rehearse worst-case scenarios while brushing my teeth. Some nights I still lie awake cataloging my deficiencies. Old habits, like old friends, don't disappear just because you've outgrown them.

But there are other moments too. Moments when I send a text without rereading it seven times. When I accept a compliment with a simple "thank you" instead of a reflexive self-deprecating joke. When I sit in silence with myself and find it's not such bad company after all.

Maybe that's what learning to be happy really means -- not achieving some permanent state of bliss, but creating space for joy to enter without immediately showing it the exit.

Lesson #4 - Happiness isn't about having no problems. It's about having problems worth having.

---

Yesterday, I was walking when I saw a dog chasing its tail. Round and round it went, determined but perpetually disappointed. After a minute, it stopped, seeming to realize the futility, and instead flopped down to bask in a patch of sunlight.

"Same, buddy," I whispered. "Same."

I sat down nearby and tilted my face toward the sun. For once, I didn't think about the infinite universe or wasted time or the emails piling up in my inbox. I just felt warm.

And maybe that's enough for now.

Maybe that's happiness after all, not the grand achievement I imagined, but small moments of presence, strung together like lights across the darkness.

I'm still learning. But for once, I'm not in a hurry to graduate.