We’ve all fallen into the trap of treating happiness like a reward we’ll receive someday, after we’ve checked off the right boxes. “I’ll be happy when I land my dream job.” “I’ll be happy when I’m in a relationship.” “I’ll be happy when I finally have it all figured out.” But life doesn’t work that way. Happiness isn’t a finish line; it’s not something we earn after jumping through enough hoops. The more we condition our joy on future circumstances, the more we train ourselves to miss the quiet, ordinary moments that make up a life worth living.

The problem with “I’ll be happy when…” is that it assumes happiness is something external, something we can acquire if we just work hard enough or wait long enough. But the truth is, happiness is far more fragile and fleeting than that. It’s not a permanent state, nor should it be. It’s a feeling that comes and goes, woven into the fabric of our days in small, often unnoticed ways. When we postpone it, we risk missing it entirely, because by the time we reach that imagined future, we’ve already conditioned ourselves to want the next thing, the next milestone, the next version of our lives where happiness supposedly lives.

And when happiness remains out of reach long enough, it doesn’t just become something we’re waiting for; it starts to feel like something we’re no longer capable of. It slips from being a goal to being a mystery. We stop noticing the small joys because we no longer expect to feel them. We begin to question whether we ever really did, or if we only thought we were happy back then because we were too distracted to notice the absence. This quiet shift can be subtle at first, but over time, it becomes its own kind of weight.

But sometimes, the absence of happiness isn’t just about waiting too long for it; it’s about no longer being able to feel it at all. That’s the weight of anhedonia: the quiet, heavy inability to take pleasure in things that once brought us joy. Unlike simply waiting for happiness, anhedonia makes joy feel impossible to reach, as if the world has been drained of color. It’s not a choice or a mindset; it’s a symptom, often of depression, burnout, or prolonged stress. When anhedonia takes hold, even the things we used to love (music, laughter, connection) feel hollow. The cruel irony is that the more we chase happiness as a future condition, the more we might actually distance ourselves from the very capacity to feel it at all.

So, how do we break free from this cycle? It starts with recognizing that happiness isn’t something we find; it’s something we practice. It’s not about grand achievements or perfect circumstances, but about the way we move through the world, the way we pay attention. It’s in the warmth of sunlight on your skin when you step outside, in the unexpected kindness of a stranger, and in the quiet satisfaction of a task completed. It’s in learning to be present instead of perpetually waiting for life to begin.

This doesn’t mean we shouldn’t strive for better things or work toward our goals. But it does mean we have to stop treating happiness like a prize we’ll win someday and start treating it like something we’re allowed to experience right now, even amid struggle. Because life isn’t a series of checkpoints leading to some ultimate state of bliss, it’s happening right here, right now, in all its messy, imperfect glory.

If anhedonia has made joy feel out of reach, know this: it’s not a personal failing. It’s a sign that your mind or body might need care, whether through rest, therapy, or simply permitting yourself to feel without judgment. Healing isn’t linear, and happiness isn’t a switch we can flip. But we can choose, moment by moment, to stop deferring our joy.

Because the real tragedy isn’t that happiness is elusive; it’s that we keep convincing ourselves it’s somewhere else, waiting for us in a future that never quite arrives. What if, instead of chasing it, we let it find us? Not because everything is perfect, but because we’ve finally stopped waiting for it to be.

Maybe happiness doesn’t need to be earned, solved, or explained. Maybe it just needs space. Space to breathe between obligations. Space to exist without being measured. When we stop performing for the version of ourselves we think we should be and start listening to who we are right now, we open the door for contentment to quietly walk in. It might not look like fireworks or feel like a revelation. Sometimes, it’s just the relief of being okay in this moment, without apology or ambition.

There’s power in learning to sit with ourselves gently. In choosing a walk over doom-scrolling, a deep breath over self-criticism, and a call to a friend over checking one more task off a list. These aren’t solutions. They’re invitations. To present. To permission. To enough-ness. And maybe that’s all happiness really needs to show up: a little bit of room, a little less waiting, and a little more willingness to meet ourselves exactly where we are.

Some of the most grounding moments I’ve experienced came when I wasn’t doing anything extraordinary. Sitting in the car with my family and feeling safe. Laughing at an old inside joke. Taking a long walk without checking the time. Those moments didn’t solve my problems, but they reminded me that joy wasn’t gone; it was just quieter than I expected. So maybe the question isn’t “How do I become happy?” but “What have I already overlooked?” What softness have I ignored in the rush to achieve? What sweetness have I passed by while waiting for something better? If we can start noticing those tiny flashes of light, maybe we’ll realize happiness isn’t out there waiting; it’s already here, peeking through the cracks.