‘Word by Word’ is a fortnightly column by Garima Behal on learning to ride the highs and lows of everyday life
The one thing I think about the most as an adult is how not to be sad. Which automatically means I think a lot about happiness. I’ve lost count of the number of times it has led me to believe in hope. Then abandoned me in the darkness of despair.
Like when I fell in love with someone who gave me all of their attention and none of their love. Or when I topped my university and had to surrender to the mundane reality of life the very next day. Happiness has bumped into me on solo sojourns across Europe. And showed me a glimpse of its face in the presence of friends and family. But, like a nomad, it has never stayed.
Yet, the optimist in me kept clinging to the notion that it is far too precious to allow being so fickle. What spurred me on was the motivational, if cheesy, idea that I could create my own happiness.
Whenever the world and its vastness and simultaneous smallness disappointed me, I could retreat into my mind. I could discover how what I was seeking on the outside had always been right within me. For the longest time, though, this idea was just an idea. Its elusiveness mocked me the way a snowy mountain peak mocks an asthmatic (I am one, so trust me, I know!). And happiness continued to be out of my reach. Until I decided to start studying it.
Making peace with my thoughts
The year was 2020, and India was under lockdown due to the Covid-19 pandemic. Armed with the gift of boredom and extra time, I started reading up on Psychology and enrolled myself in an online course on Mindfulness. I was dealing with the stressors of an unfulfilling job and toxic micromanagement at the time, which ensured my anxiety peaked afresh each day. Having tried meditation many a time before with no success, I was, at best, skeptical.
Yet, day after day, as I exposed myself to the lectures and sat observing the murky depths of my mind during guided mediations, I found an oasis opening up slowly, inexplicably, almost magically, in the unending desert of my unhappy heart. This tiny spot of cool and shade was a refuge for me from the fragile mess I was—a person who couldn’t process all the stress, death, tragedy, and heartbreak around her as it echoed in the piercing sirens of the ambulances.
What had started off as an experiment soon metamorphosed into an addiction. But of the positive kind. Here was a readymade recipe for happiness (or at least the absence of gut-wrenching doomsday sadness). And I could access it anytime I wanted.
The best part? It didn’t need me to book flight tickets and escape from life at the slightest inconvenience. Or swipe right mindlessly on a dating app, hoping to find my misery some company. It felt like I was free, like I was all I needed to be happy. That was the dream, wasn’t it? If this were a dramatic story, now would be the time to introduce a plot twist. And probably tell you that the magic potion of happiness didn’t last too long, that its effects started to wane, and that I was back on the hedonic treadmill, chasing a flimsy feeling all over again.
Luckily for me, this isn’t what happened. Things only got better as I integrated mindfulness practices into my everyday routine. The impossible idea that we could manufacture our own little bubbles of happiness became a reality.
So, I built mine by following the teachings of the course and those of Buddhism. I paid more attention to the present moment instead of ricocheting between the regrets of the past and the worries of the future.
The lesson of observing my breath helped me anchor my million miles-a-minute mind. I sat on my yoga mat in a little corner of my room before my serene, sandalwood Buddha and discovered that it had equipped me to deal with challenges far more calmly and more rationally—a highly underrated path to being happy. I now have close to 100 hours of meditation under my belt.
I felt so incredibly grateful for achieving what I thought was an impossibility that I started writing those feelings down in the form of a daily gratitude list. As I became more accepting of and grateful for the beautiful cosmic accident of my own life, it liberated me from the need to seek validation from others.
The result? My Instagram profile today stays deactivated for 9 months out of 12. I have not logged into my Facebook account in forever. And YouTube videos from influencers making six figures while traveling no longer make me angry, envious, or wistful. Now that I have a formula for my own happiness, I am no longer captive to their definitions.
Today, my happiness is more a gentle companion than an unforgiving mission. More here than elsewhere. More faithful than fleeting. And though the arduous climb often left me short of breath, the view from the snowy mountain top? That is what’s truly breathtaking.
Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author’s own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of MyndStories.
