Becoming, Lucy

I was thinking I’m not really in my feels lately, and that’s why I can’t write anything decent.
But then I thought, what if I’m just happy?

But I’m not even sure I know what happiness feels like.
Which is such a weird thing to admit, isn’t it? Surely I should know what it feels like?

When my sons were born?
When I sit and play with them?
Surely? But all I can think is, yeah that feels nice, but there were other feelings there too.

What does happiness actually feel like?
I’m not sure. What’s it supposed to feel like?

I’ve felt fine. Just okay.
But I don’t think I’ve ever felt pure happiness.

Maybe when I found out I was pregnant with my first son – I cried tears of joy, but also absolute fear. Even though he was very much wanted and (kind of) planned, it was still terrifying.

I keep trying to justify it. Trying to prove that I have been happy at least once in my life. But I genuinely can’t think of a single time I’ve felt that big, cinematic kind of happiness people talk about.

Maybe happiness isn’t a big moment.
Maybe it’s not something that stays for long periods of time.
Maybe it’s just small moments.

Holding my sons in the quiet hospital room when it was just us.
Those small moments of peace.

Or when I sit and listen to music in the evening, and that’s it – nothing else.
Or when I light a candle and just watch the flame flicker.
Or when I watch my boys play together.

Maybe happiness isn’t something that lasts, because life always finds a way to distract us.
But there’s joy to be found in every moment.

When I walk in the cold morning air and the sun peeks through the clouds.
Or when every sock has a pair and there’s none left in the basket (I wish).

Maybe my days are full of happiness – I just let the things that seem important get in the way.