I’m most happy in moments that don’t look impressive on paper.

Not the kind of happy that requires a caption or a filter or proof.
The kind that just happens. Quietly. Reliably. Like muscle memory.

I’m most happy making pancakes for my son at 5:30 a.m.
before coffee,
before consciousness,
before I remember who I am or why I agreed to be responsible for another human.

There is something deeply grounding about flipping pancakes in the dark, half-awake, knowing this small ritual matters. Even if I’m operating on fumes.

I’m most happy when I put Santa hats on my dogs.
Especially the middle one.
The curmudgeon.

The look on his face that is deeply offended, mildly betrayed, existentially confused makes me giggle to no end.
It is joy and comedy.
A two-for-one special.

I’m most happy when I find the perfect gift for someone.
Not an expensive gift.
Not a flashy gift.
The one that makes you say, “Oh. You really know me.”

That’s my love language. Wrapped.

I’m most happy with warm bread pudding and a truly excellent rum sauce.
Not a polite drizzle.
A confident pour.

I’m most happy when I’m wrapped in blankets like a cocoon
when the world is muffled,
my body exhales,
and sleep comes gently instead of dragging me under.

I’m most happy when I cross things off my to-do list.
Pen to paper.
Line through chaos.
Tiny dopamine hit.
Rinse and repeat.

I’m most happy when the ones I love are free of pain.
When they’re laughing,
or giggling,
or savoring their treat of choice like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to them.

Their joy expands my own.

I’m most happy watching old favorite shows and movies
the ones that feel like friends
with a mug of warm apple cider in my hands.

Familiar stories.
Low stakes.
High comfort.

I’m most happy in peace.
In serenity.
In quiet.
In calm.

I’m most happy when I feel supported,
when I know there is a safety net beneath me, even if I never use it.
Just knowing it’s there changes how I move through the world.

And I’m most happy jumping in puddles, sticking my tongue out in the rain
somehow keeping my hair magically dry,
because joy doesn’t always follow physics.

Happiness, I’ve learned, isn’t one big moment.
It’s a collection of small, ordinary, ridiculous ones.

It’s pancakes.
And dogs in Santa hats.
And bread pudding.
And blankets.
And checklists.
And puddles.

It’s noticing.

And once you do,
it turns out you’re happy more often than you thought.