Somewhere between childhood and adulthood, the instructions for happiness got misplaced

Happiness is a funny thing. We talk about it as if it’s something we once held effortlessly, something we carried around as children before adult life barged in with schedules, bills, disappointments, and general nonsense. We look back on childhood through a soft-focus lens and convince ourselves that we were happy all the time, running around carefree, uncomplicated, and unbothered. We think there were no struggles, or hard times, but nostalgia is a terrible historian. It edits ruthlessly, snips out the boredom, the embarrassments, the abuses, the control, the anxieties, and leaves us with a curated highlight reel that no adult life could ever compete with.

I was reminded of this selective memory after watching Hector’s Search for Happiness, a sweet but slightly odd film about a man who realizes, quite abruptly, that he has no idea what it means to be happy. As a boy, he had friends to laugh with and a loyal dog trotting beside him, but as an adult, he finds himself living a life that looks correct on paper yet feels hollow on the inside. That space between the appearance of happiness and the actual experience of it is where many of us quietly live.

Truthfully, a lot of us are like Hector. We are hitting the milestones, ticking the boxes, scheduling the vacations, second jobs, retirement, buying the things we’re told should make us smile… yet not entirely sure what happiness even feels like anymore. Not comfort, not distraction, not temporary excitement, actual happiness. We suspect we once knew, but somewhere between childhood and adulthood, the instructions got misplaced, and we can’t find the receipt.

Now, here we are with Christmas approaching, preparing to hear, yet again, that “money can’t buy happiness.” We repeat it, we nod along, we pretend we’ve learned the lesson, but our habits. They tell a different story.

We flood Facebook with photos of our expensive new toys: vehicles of all sorts, phones, gadgets, luxury trips, limited-edition items that promise a thrill, but rarely deliver one that lasts. We shop like happiness might be tucked inside a box from Best Buy, or Lululemon. We say money can’t buy happiness, yet we behave as though it just might, especially if we post the purchase online. We seem to think that if a hundred people “like” it and write “nice,” then the deal is sealed, happiness confirmed, validation achieved.

Maybe we’re not hypocrites. Maybe we’re just lost, because when you don’t really know what happiness feels like, you start grabbing at anything that resembles it. Stuff, fake people, booze, and ideas built on self-indulgence.

As a kid, my idea of happiness was simple: I wanted two things: goalie pads and a dog. That was it. I pictured myself making glove saves like the next Ken Dryden (yes, I’m a Habs fan) while my loyal mutt waited patiently ready to follow me anywhere. I got the goalie pads. I did not get the dog, and yes, I mourned that canine absence with the melodramatic heartbreak only a child can muster.

Looking back, there’s something truthful in that simplicity. Happiness wasn’t complicated. It wasn’t tied to status, or approval, or Instagram metrics. It wasn’t about being admired or appearing successful. It lived in small, specific desires, things driven by curiosity, connection, and imagination. Our playful nature and imagination mattered more than screentime and money.

Somewhere along the way, we complicate happiness. We tie it to income, appearance, comparison, and public approval. We hide it behind milestones and purchases, and then we wonder why it feels elusive. You can’t feel something that is empty.

The uncomfortable truth is that happiness never really disappeared. We just stopped noticing the shape of it. We started putting our happiness in the hands of other people, people whose opinions do not really matter.

Happiness isn’t something we “find.” It’s something we pay attention to. It tends to hide in small, unimpressive corners: in connection, stillness, gratitude, presence, and the kind of laughter that sneaks up on us. It lives in moments, not purchases, in relationships, not performance.

The real search for happiness isn’t about acquiring more stuff. It’s about remembering what mattered long before we started confusing “likes” with meaning, and back when all we wanted was goalie pads and a dog.