Sometimes, nothing makes me happy. Not even my favorite being in the world, Coco, my senior pup. On those days, I feel unsettled and restless. I try to find happiness or chase it in food, control, productivity, or the next thing on my to-do list. The more I hunt for it, the more elusive it becomes. And then comes the guilt. Why am I unhappy when I have so much going for me? In this week’s blog, I reflect on the strange melancholy that can visit us even when our lives look full from the outside, and how healing sometimes means learning to come home to ourselves instead of searching for happiness everywhere else.
When I moved to India to be with my parents almost four years ago, I genuinely believed the transition would be easier. I thought I would make friends effortlessly. I imagined my health coaching practice growing by leaps and bounds. I assumed I would finally have all the time in the world to live slowly, intentionally, and exactly as I wanted. None of it went according to plan.
I am still finding my people locally, and I cannot confidently say that I have a strong community of friends here. My practice isn’t where I once imagined it would be, but it is also not where it was when I started. There has been growth, even if it looks different from the version I carried in my mind. And as for having endless free time? That illusion disappeared quickly. I balance my work with the family business, and yes, I even work on Sundays.
Sometimes I look at my life and think, wasn’t this what I wanted? Wasn’t this the dream? That line of thought carries a particular kind of sadness. Because when we finally get what we longed for, we expect ourselves to be permanently grateful, permanently fulfilled, and permanently happy, but life does not work that way.
I think one of the most difficult parts of healing is accepting that two things can be true at once: you can deeply love your life and still feel unhappy within it sometimes. You can be grateful and grieving, connected and lonely; content and restless. There doesn’t always have to be a catastrophe for sadness to exist.
For a long time, I treated unhappiness like a problem to solve. If I felt off, something must be wrong. I needed to work harder, fix something, be more productive, eat differently, be more disciplined, or find the missing piece that would make everything click into place.
But what if nothing is broken? What if, sometimes, unhappiness is simply an invitation back to ourselves?
I’ve noticed that when joy feels far away, I am often looking for it in places that cannot sustain me. Validation. Success. Recognition. More money. More certainty. More control.
The irony is that the harder I chase those things, the farther away I move from myself. I stop asking what I need and start asking what everyone else needs from me. I stop creating and start performing. I stop living and start managing. And eventually, my soul notices.
So, these days, when that familiar dissatisfaction arrives, I try not to panic. I try to come back home. Sometimes that looks like rest. My life doesn’t follow the traditional rhythm of working hard during the week and resting on weekends. I’ve had to learn to take advantage of pockets of stillness whenever they appear. A quiet Tuesday afternoon. An hour between responsibilities. A morning that begins more slowly than expected. Rest, I’ve learned, isn’t about the calendar. It’s about permission, where I stop searching for happiness long enough to simply be with myself.
Sometimes coming home looks like play. For me, that means silly dancing in my room with Coco as my only audience. It means looking up from my phone long enough to notice the monkeys outside my window. There is an entire family of them that visits every few days, and watching them brings me a kind of joy that feels impossible to manufacture. I love seeing them protect their young, swing recklessly from branch to branch, and create absolute mayhem. A few weeks ago, I caught two of them stealing potatoes from our pantry. Moments like these remind me that life is happening whether I am paying attention or not.
And healing, in many ways, is about paying attention again. I’ve also had to accept that friendship, like everything else, evolves. The version of community I imagined for myself looks different from the one I actually have. I have long-distance friendships that require intention and effort. I nurture the relationships I left behind while remaining open to the ones forming now. My community includes people who attend my workshops, read this blog, respond to my posts, and trust me enough to share parts of their stories with me. It may not resemble the traditional picture of friendship I once held, but it is real. And perhaps part of growing older is allowing things to be real without insisting they look familiar.
My purpose over the last few years has been simple: to live mindfully. Not perfectly or happily all the time, but consciously. To be present for what is here instead of constantly negotiating with what isn’t. To not lose sight of the goodness in front of me because my mind insists I should be somewhere else, someone else, or further along. When all else fails, I return to the practice that has transformed my life more than anything else: self-compassion.
Self-compassion is not giving myself a pass, and it’s not forcing myself to pretend that difficult things aren’t difficult. It is awareness, kindness, and remembering that I am not alone. It means resisting the urge to numb myself or lash out simply because I don’t understand what I am feeling. It means sitting beside my discomfort long enough to ask what it’s trying to tell me. It means acknowledging that yes, life is unfolding differently than I planned, but it is still unfolding in ways that deserve appreciation. It means remembering that transitions are part of being human. I am not alone in what I am feeling. For instance, I have friends navigating grief. Others are learning how to be parents. Some are rebuilding after heartbreak. Some are questioning careers they spent years building. No one is exempt from uncertainty, and no one arrives at a place where happiness becomes permanent.
Perhaps that realization is strangely comforting, because if unhappiness is not a personal failure, then I don’t have to fight it so hard. Maybe I can simply welcome it in, offer it a cup of tea, and ask it what it needs.
You might have everything you once prayed for and still feel unhappy sometimes. There is nothing wrong with you. Maybe your sadness is asking for less judgment. Maybe it is asking for acceptance of what cannot be changed. Maybe it is asking you to notice what is working instead of only what isn’t. Or maybe it is simply asking you to come back to yourself.
I think healing is, in many ways, the lifelong process of becoming your own safe space. A place you can return to when life feels uncertain. A place where there is no need to perform happiness or explain sadness. A place without criticism, shame, or conditions, but plenty of honesty, tenderness, and quiet understanding that even when happiness wanders off for a while, you have not lost yourself. And if you stay long enough, with enough kindness and enough patience, perhaps you’ll discover that home was never somewhere outside of you to begin with.
This is my small corner where I share what I’m still learning how to hold. Somehow, you might find parts of yourself in it, especially the messy and quiet ones you don’t always show. If you see yourself here, you’re not alone, because we are all working on coming home to ourselves.
My 5-minute guide for when you’re feeling overwhelmed, stuck, or lost. Reset your energy and reconnect with yourself. Bonus audio guide included. Available here: Energy Guide
All the best,
Chaitni