You are responsible of your own happiness

In July, shortly before I boarded on my plane to Singapore, I met up with a friend of mine, who had been sharing paths with me since about the time I first came to Berlin. Since she herself had moved out at the age of 16, in order to live her dream attending a performing arts school and I felt that she of all people could maybe understand me the most. So in those last couple of weeks I talked to her about everything. Reasons I left. Reasons I wanted to go. Reasons I didn’t want to go and everything that would not leave my mind during that time. And as we were sitting in a supermarket coffee shop, watching the rain pouring down, I remember her suddenly looking at me with a wholeheartedly honesty and saying: “Whatever will happen during the next couple of years-you always have to remember that you are responsible for your own happiness. You might not understand now. But what I have learned is, reaching your goals doesn’t make you happy.”

I thought I understood at that time in the coffee shop. And I probably did. I understood the theory behind her advice.

But learning the truth is not a process of understanding, but experiencing.

UWC was my biggest dream. Everyone who ever talked to me during that period of my life can approve that. And it is not even that it doesn’t fulfill my expectations. But I realised, that I expected things to be easier. I was waiting for things to come for me. Happiness just happening. But happiness is not something that just occurs. You have to be aware of it. You have to look for it. And sometimes you have to work for it.

“You are responsible for your own happiness.”

It means that happiness is active and internal.

It means finding out what makes you happy. And being wise enough to not only hold on to that, but embracing it, being aware of it.

Maybe starting a completely new life from scratch wasn’t the easiest pathway. But it made me realising exactly what I miss from my old life. Things that made me happy.

I loved to write. God how I loved to write: that feeling of words floating out of me, making sentences, making sense, making me feel something. And not for an IB essay. Not for CAS or any kind of school activity. Simply because it is the art I love, hoping someone will find pleasure in it and if not that is okay, because I do.

I loved to play the guitar. Making music. Listening to the sounds slowly becoming something greater and making sense. Combining music with written words, creating a song, trying to make people feel what you want them to feel, overcoming your comfort zone by sharing something so personal. Continuing even if another rejection by the music departement.

I loved reading. Getting carried away by another world, diving into someone else’s mind. Creating my own world together with someone else. Forgetting everything around me as I am being fulfilled by that story.

I loved talking to people. Those real conversations. Truthful, funny, deep, but always with an honesty straight from the heart. Those conversations that you go out of feeling that you understand the other person a bit more, feeling honoured by this story you were allowed to be a part of for a few seconds.

I loved singing. Not to prepare for an audition. Not for an activity. Not to impress other people, just because I feel every beat, every tone I live the feelings the author wanted to feel and for a few seconds I get carried away by the best thing a person can possibly share. A feeling.

I love smiles. Not that uplifting of the ends of your mouth, but that deep shared moment, when you see your counterpart and you actually sense and appreciate this shared intimacy.

I love sleeping. Not these hours you are trying to overcome between two days. But falling into a nice and cozy bed, a slight smile, knowing you will wake up fresh and healthy.

I love food. I love chocolate, I love cookies, I love rice pudding with coconut, I love the weird popcorn-dish one of my coyears cooks. Food as a feeling of satisfaction, not an act to fulfill the goal of producing energy.

I love looking at pretty pictures on my phone, beautiful things, that don’t have another purpose than to be enjoyed.

I love clothes, not the expensive labelled ones. I love my cozy study-time pants, my second-hand Harvard-Sweater. I love how clothes can make you feel like the prettiest girl in the world. Like a princess, as if you were something bigger tonight.

I love kids. The curiosity, the honesty, the warmth. I might not be a good person, but for that kid I am an inspiration today and that is enough for me in that second.

I love laughter. Especially when shared with someone unexpected. Maybe in a tense situation, that suddenly loosens up. Filling you with bubbly, sparkly joy.

I love when people see me. Not detecting me and maybe even coming up with a name for my face. But to actually noticing me. Taking two more seconds to think: this is Julia. I know her.

I love when people are listening to me. Not because they have to. But because they are interested in me. Not in my IB scores. Not in my Curriculum Vita. Not which university I want to apply to. What I want to become when I grow up. But who I am right now. In this second.

I love when people are asking me questions. Questions I have to think of. Not because they need the answer for homework or because they want to know what time it is. But because a random thought appeared in their head and their curiosity and bravery is bigger than the fear for being judged.

I love not knowing. And being allowed to. There are so many things I don’t know. Some of them I will know eventually, if I pay attention in my classes. Others I will never know and maybe no one ever will. And that’s okay.

I love that the world still has mysteries and inexplicable things.

I love being needed. Feeling that I am serving a purpose, that I am part of something bigger. That I am part of something special.

I love making people laugh. And when people make me laugh. When we laugh wholeheartedly, we don’t think about how we sound or look. We express our happiness. Beautifully.

I love when people ask me if I want to join them. Realising that they want to have me there. With them.

I love when people text me, just because they want to talk to me.

I love loving. I love that deep positive feeling you can have for someone and sometimes it just fills you up with joy and gratefulness, like a warm cozy bubble of happiness.

And maybe I had to forget, in order to become aware of this again.