My happy place

They asked me once,

“Where is your happy place?”

And I paused—

Not because I didn’t have one,

But because I had too many,

Scattered like seashells

Across the shoreline of memory.

Is it a place?

A person?

A moment stitched into time?

Or is it something less tangible—

A feeling that finds you

When you finally stop running?

My happy place is not just one thing.

It’s many things,

Woven into a tapestry

Of breath, silence, color, and light.

It’s the soft hum of morning

When the sun spills through half-closed blinds,

And the world hasn’t demanded anything of me yet.

It’s the quiet knowing

That I am safe,

And the loud joy

That I am still here.

It’s the pages of a book

That smells like dust and adventure,

Where dragons fly

And broken people still find ways to love.

It’s the underlining of a sentence

That feels like it knew me before I did.

It’s the moment my fingers touch piano keys—

Out of tune,

But honest.

And for a brief second,

I don’t have to explain myself to the world.

I just play,

And the notes carry everything I can’t say.

Sometimes,

My happy place is found

In the laughter of people I love,

Where jokes stretch too long

And drinks go half-finished

Because we’re too busy remembering who we are

When we’re not pretending.

Other times,

It’s the breath I take

After a good cry—

When the ache lifts,

Even just a little,

And I know I’ve survived

Something that once threatened to unmake me.

It’s in the car

On an aimless drive,

Windows down,

Music too loud,

Singing off-key

Like it matters more than anything else.

In that moment,

There’s no destination—

Only motion.

Only freedom.

It’s on a rainy afternoon,

When I’m wrapped in a blanket,

Tea in hand,

And the storm outside feels like a lullaby

For grown-ups.

And yes—

Sometimes my happy place

Is a memory I visit

Like an old friend.

Like the summer I was twelve,

Barefoot in my grandfather’s garden,

Where tomatoes grew heavy

And bees didn’t scare me yet.

Or the beach trip at seventeen,

When we watched the stars

And dared each other to dream bigger

Than the town we thought would swallow us whole.

But let me be honest—

There are days I lose it.

Days when my happy place feels like a country

Whose borders have closed

To travelers like me.

When the light won’t come through,

And joy feels like something

Other people carry with ease.

On those days,

I remember this:

My happy place is not a place.

It’s a promise.

That healing is slow,

But possible.

That even the hardest nights

Lead back to morning.

That I don’t have to be okay

To be whole.

My happy place lives

In the resilience of my breath.

In the miracle of starting over.

In the way I still choose love—

Over bitterness,

Over silence,

Over fear.

Where is your happy place?

Maybe it’s a mountain,

Or a kitchen,

Or the way your dog looks at you

Like you hung the moon.

Maybe it’s your art,

Or your faith,

Or your children’s laughter

Echoing down the hall.

Maybe it’s in the quiet—

The stillness

Where no one is watching,

And you finally let yourself

Be soft again.

Whatever it is,

I hope you go there.

Not just when the world breaks,

But when it doesn’t.

When you’re thriving,

When you’re doubting,

When you’re simply existing.

And if you haven’t found it yet—

Keep looking.

Or better yet,

Build it.

Plant your flag

In the soil of your own becoming.

Let the walls be made of stories,

The roof, your truth,

And the door always open

To the person you’re still becoming.

Because the truth is,

Your happy place

Was never meant to be found.

It was always meant

To be made.