I have spent a huge chunk of my life perfecting the art of suffering. I have seasoned my struggles like a chef would, marinated in self-pity, and slow-roasted in crisis. I have built my personality on resilience, like an underdog protagonist in an indie film. And now? Now, things are getting better. And I have no idea what to do with myself.
Nobody talks about this. We all love a good redemption arc, but what happens after the protagonist wins? What happens when you’ve spent years convincing yourself that you were built for struggle, that life is a never-ending spiral of missed opportunities and suspiciously high therapy bills, only to wake up one day and realise? Oh! Things are fine?
For years, I have been conditioned to expect catastrophe at every corner. If things are good, it must mean that something truly awful is brewing. This is the rule. This is how balance is maintained. Have I not suffered enough? Must the universe now gaslight me into believing I am worthy of peace? Happiness never feels free. It feels like a loan with an interest rate so high that even the banks would be like, “That’s aggressive.” Good moments aren’t just good. They come with a timer. Joy feels like a setup. It’s a limited-time promotion where the fine print says, “By enjoying this moment, you automatically agree to unforeseen emotional consequences.” I don’t trust it. I’ve learned that when life hands you a good day, it’s already in the process of balancing the books.
Do you mean to tell me that all that character development was for nothing? That I have been honing my emotional endurance for years, only for life to suddenly stop being a villain? What am I supposed to do with all this unused trauma energy? Pick up knitting? Start a podcast? Just relax? No, thank you. Some people relax when life is good. They enjoy the moment. I? I am out here scanning the horizon like a paranoid little meerkat, waiting for life to swing back around and remind me where I belong.
Even my brain is confused. The other day, I sat in my room, basking in the calm, and my anxiety was foaming at the mouth. It knocked on the door like an aggressive landlord: “Hello? We’re supposed to be spiralling right now. Are you not aware of how happiness usually goes? It’s a trap. Get up. We’re pacing.” But I had nothing to pace about. My problems have been demoted from life-threatening to mildly inconvenient. Give me a crisis, and I’ll handle it like a pro. I can budget my mental breakdowns, distribute my emotional turmoil evenly, and make time for self-destructive coping mechanisms like a champion. But give me stability? Give me joy? Now, that’s terrifying. That’s uncharted territory.
After reading up on why happiness has felt so unsettling, I found, that this happens because, after prolonged exposure to trauma, the brain is no longer in the business of distinguishing between real threats and perceived ones, it just assumes everything is a threat. The human mind becomes hyperactive, effectively turning into an overzealous security guard who sounds the alarm at the slightest sign of movement. Meanwhile, the prefrontal cortex, the part responsible for rational decision-making, is underfunded, overworked, and frankly exhausted, trying (and failing) to convince the rest of the brain that not every good moment is a prelude to catastrophe.
This rewiring leads to hyper vigilance, where even the absence of distress feels unsettling because the brain has been conditioned to expect disaster. The nervous system, having spent too long in a heightened state of fight-or-flight, struggles to recognise safety—even when it’s real. This is why moments of happiness don’t feel like a relief but almost like a setup, an eerie silence before the inevitable storm.
And because the brain is fundamentally a pattern-recognition machine, it mistakenly assumes that because joy has historically been followed by suffering, the two must always be connected. This creates a kind of dopamine distrust, where instead of embracing happiness, the brain braces for impact, anticipating that peace must eventually be paid for in pain. It’s not paranoia; it’s simply a survival mechanism that has outlived its usefulness but refuses to retire.
Even then, I can’t shake the question out of my head – how do people exist without constantly bracing for impact? What do they do with themselves? Where do they put all their excess anxiety?
Every happy moment feels like something I must earn. Like if I’m too okay, I’m betraying my past self who suffered so much. Like I must carry my grief, my struggles, and my trauma with me at all times, or else I’m doing something wrong.
Sometimes, I feel like I have to stay a little bit miserable, just out of respect. Like, “Oh, you want me to just move on and be happy? After everything I’ve been through? Bold of you to assume I even know how.”
So yeah. Life is getting better. I’m healthier. I’m healing. I am thriving… allegedly. But I still don’t trust it.
Because when you’ve spent so much time suffering, happiness doesn’t feel like the light at the end of the tunnel. It feels like a trick. Like a test. Like the moment in a horror movie where the music stops right before something awful happens.
So, if you see me out there, smiling but looking mildly distressed just know, I’m not ungrateful. I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop.
