She Discovered That Happiness Doesn’t Have to Be Hard Work
If only rebooting your mindset were as easy as restarting your laptop. As part of a collection on shifting perspectives, writers share the struggles, revelations, and joys they experienced as they began to see themselves and the world around them from a different point of view—and experts weigh in with advice on how you can change your perspective on just about anything.
I have forced myself to sweat through an excruciating 90-minute boot camp class I’d mistakenly thought was beginner’s yoga. I’ve brought Russian novels on beach vacations. And I once carried a rolled-up rug on a crowded subway rather than springing for a taxi.
I’ve always taken pride in doing the hard thing, believing it would, in the words of my Texan father, “put hair on your chest.” Except for the hair, he’s been mostly right; challenging experiences often brought me the deepest joy, or felt most worthwhile. When I ran cross-country in high school, I hated the meets so much that I’d pray our bus would crash on the way—but I loved the camaraderie and how strong it made me feel. I picked a college known for its academic rigor and bad weather and spent much of four years intimidated and freezing. Yet it was there that I met some of my favorite people. I then moved to New York, where the living is—decidedly—not easy. But it’s where I built a career, met my husband, had our son, and frequented a restaurant serving Neapolitan-style pizza I continue to lust for.
Still, after 18 years in the city, my life kept getting harder. It was one thing to be young, scrappy, and hungry in my 20s and 30s, but by my 40s, the hustling was starting to wear me out. Traipsing through the snow to meet friends for drinks was invigorating; pushing my then-toddler’s stroller through blizzards to escape our cramped apartment, less so. Finding creative ways to make extra cash felt clever when I supported only myself. But with a family, when I sold jewelry to pay a bill, what had once seemed scrappy now felt irresponsible. And when I’d visit my parents in New Orleans alone, I was eager to get back to New York. But with my son in tow, our trips felt too short; I'd sob in the airport security line on the way back.
Then the degree of difficulty ratcheted up further. Our rent was increasing; we could no longer afford our Brooklyn apartment. We booked an Airbnb to crash in while deciding where to move, vetting far-flung areas long train rides away from my office. Packing up our home, I felt the same panic that came over me on the cross-country bus. But unlike a meet, which offers sweet relief and hard-won pride at the finish, here, I couldn’t see an endpoint. I only envisioned us contorting ourselves further to stay in New York. For the first time, I questioned whether I wanted to, or if I’d been living with the notion that there’s a celestial accountant keeping track of who’s doing the hardest thing, sacrificing the most. What if, in the end, no one cares, and all I was sacrificing was my happiness?
I finally realized that not only was there no shame in dropping out of this race, it would be stupid to run it. Like Kenny Rogers—who, I’d bet, had plenty of hair on his chest—sang, “You’ve gotta know when to fold ’em.” So I decided to do what I thought I never would: return to New Orleans, where rent is cheaper and life less of a struggle.
Moving was hard; it always is. But soon after we arrived, I took my son for a post-work swim at the local pool. We bumped into my dad in the grocery store after. Then, still in our bathing suits, we drove home with the windows down and music blaring. It felt glorious—and it was so easy.
—Katherine Fausset is a literary agent in New Orleans.
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