People ask me why I seem so happy, and whether I really am.
I am. Let me be clear though, I don’t have everything goes my way.
My joy isn’t the fleeting kind that depends on luck or applause (definitely not). It’s the quieter, steadier kind, the kind you notice even on a gray afternoon, with a half-finished coffee by your side and a dozen problems still unsolved.
What I’ve learned is this: happiness isn’t about certainty. It’s about trust.
When the ground gives away
I’ve trusted the wrong things before. The wrong promises said by well-intentioned people with ethical gray zones. Big visions painted in bold strokes that collapsed when the details mattered most. At the time, I clung to those assurances as if they were solid ground. When they gave way, the fall was incredibly painful, it shook my confidence in my own judgment.
That’s the hardest part about misplaced trust. It doesn’t just disappoint you. It makes you wonder if you’ll ever trust wisely again.
Finding my ground
Eventually, I realized that the problem wasn’t trust itself actually, it was where I placed it. External promises are fragile, they can vanish overnight, and people who make them can change their mind like their clothes. But trust in my own ability to adapt, to learn, to keep moving, that’s different.
That’s why I journal decisions. Not because I need proof for the good days, but because on the hard days I need reminders: I’ve been here before. I found a way forward then. I’ll find a way again.
Failure reframed as experiment. Missed targets reframed as signals. The story I tell myself shapes my resilience. The same setback can either be proof that I’m inadequate, or proof that I’m still in the arena, still learning. One narrative leads to despair. The other fuels persistence.
Trust and faith
And for me, trust doesn’t stop with myself. Part of it is rooted in faith. My belief doesn’t guarantee outcomes – life has made it clear that certainty doesn’t exist. What faith gives me is something more enduring: a sense that I’m not carrying all of this alone. That even in chaos, there is meaning.
It doesn’t take away the turbulence in the journey, it just steadies me in the middle of it, and I can turn to the person sitting beside me and ask if they’re ok.
The daily practice
That’s why I say trust > certainty. Certainty is fragile, one broken promise and it shatters. Trust is built daily, in the small choices: to persist when quitting would be easier, to notice beauty in an ordinary morning, to believe meaning even in the middle of loss and grief.
Carried long enough, trust transforms into joy. And joy stops being a rare guest, she moves in, rearranges your furniture, and stays.
—
Notes to Self: These are reflections in motion, not polished essays. If you want those, visit The Human Margin.
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How trust becomes joy
People ask me why I seem so happy, and whether I really am.
I am. Let me be clear though, I don’t have everything goes my way.
My joy isn’t the fleeting kind that depends on luck or applause (definitely not). It’s the quieter, steadier kind, the kind you notice even on a gray afternoon, with a half-finished coffee by your side and a dozen problems still unsolved.
What I’ve learned is this: happiness isn’t about certainty. It’s about trust.
When the ground gives away
I’ve trusted the wrong things before. The wrong promises said by well-intentioned people with ethical gray zones. Big visions painted in bold strokes that collapsed when the details mattered most. At the time, I clung to those assurances as if they were solid ground. When they gave way, the fall was incredibly painful, it shook my confidence in my own judgment.
That’s the hardest part about misplaced trust. It doesn’t just disappoint you. It makes you wonder if you’ll ever trust wisely again.
Finding my ground
Eventually, I realized that the problem wasn’t trust itself actually, it was where I placed it. External promises are fragile, they can vanish overnight, and people who make them can change their mind like their clothes. But trust in my own ability to adapt, to learn, to keep moving, that’s different.
That’s why I journal decisions. Not because I need proof for the good days, but because on the hard days I need reminders: I’ve been here before. I found a way forward then. I’ll find a way again.
Failure reframed as experiment. Missed targets reframed as signals. The story I tell myself shapes my resilience. The same setback can either be proof that I’m inadequate, or proof that I’m still in the arena, still learning. One narrative leads to despair. The other fuels persistence.
Trust and faith
And for me, trust doesn’t stop with myself. Part of it is rooted in faith. My belief doesn’t guarantee outcomes – life has made it clear that certainty doesn’t exist. What faith gives me is something more enduring: a sense that I’m not carrying all of this alone. That even in chaos, there is meaning.
It doesn’t take away the turbulence in the journey, it just steadies me in the middle of it, and I can turn to the person sitting beside me and ask if they’re ok.
The daily practice
That’s why I say trust > certainty. Certainty is fragile, one broken promise and it shatters. Trust is built daily, in the small choices: to persist when quitting would be easier, to notice beauty in an ordinary morning, to believe meaning even in the middle of loss and grief.
Carried long enough, trust transforms into joy. And joy stops being a rare guest, she moves in, rearranges your furniture, and stays.
—
Notes to Self: These are reflections in motion, not polished essays. If you want those, visit The Human Margin.
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