Happiness And Money

The Paradox of Happiness and Money: A Single Dad's Real Talk

Look, I’m no expert on happiness. I’m just a guy who spent the last twelve years fixing broken things in houses while trying not to break my own kids’ hearts. My wife, Sarah, died when our youngest, Lily, was two. One minute she’s singing in the kitchen, the next she’s gone. And yeah, money helped. But it didn’t fix anything. So I’ve been thinking about this thing people say: "Money can’t buy happiness." I’ve got news for you—it can, but only if you know how to use it. And it can’t, if you’re chasing it like it’s the cure-all. Here’s what I figured out, the hard way.

Money Does Buy Happiness (The Real Kind)

Let’s get this straight: money buys security. And security? That’s the bedrock of happiness for a single dad. I’m not talking about fancy cars or big houses. I’m talking about the quiet relief when you don’t have to choose between paying the electric bill or buying your kid’s asthma inhaler.

Last winter, Lily had a bad attack. We were out of town, and the emergency inhaler was gone. I called the pharmacy, and the guy said, "We’re out, but I can order it." I told him, "Just ship it. I’ll pay whatever." That’s money buying happiness. Not the big kind—just the relief kind. The kind where you don’t have to sit in the car, sweating, wondering if your kid’s gonna be okay because you couldn’t afford the medicine. That’s happiness. Real, gritty, necessary happiness.

Money also buys time. And time? That’s the most precious thing a dad has. When I finally got that raise after ten years as an electrician, I didn’t buy a new truck. I hired a part-time sitter for two nights a week. Two nights. So I could actually sleep without the kids’ voices in my head. So I could take my oldest, Ben, to the baseball field without rushing him to the bus stop. That time? It bought me back my own breath. It bought me the chance to be with my kids, not just do for them. That’s happiness. Not a feeling. A thing you can hold.

And money buys choices. Like when my daughter, Maya, got that scholarship to the summer art camp. I didn’t have to say, "Maybe next year." I just said, "Yes." And she got to make those little clay pots she’s been dreaming about. That’s not just "buying a thing"—it’s buying possibility. It’s buying the chance for her to feel seen. That’s happiness. The kind that sticks.

Money Doesn’t Buy Happiness (The Hard Truth)

But here’s the flip side: money can’t buy peace. And peace? That’s the thing that keeps you from losing your mind when the bills pile up and the kids are sick and you’re alone.

I’ll never forget my buddy, Dave. He was a salesman. Made six figures. Bought a house with a pool. Then his wife left him. And the house? It just got bigger. Louder. More empty. He’d call me at 2 a.m., drunk, saying, "Jimmy, I got everything I wanted, and I’m still so damn lonely." That’s not money failing him. That’s him using money to fill a hole it can’t touch. And it made him more empty. Because money can’t buy a hug when you’re crying. It can’t buy the sound of your wife’s laugh. It can’t buy the feeling of being known.

Money also can’t buy connection. I see it all the time. People with big houses but no one to share the quiet moments with. My neighbor, Mrs. Gable, lives in a mansion. She’s got a garden bigger than my whole yard. But she’s always alone. I’d see her sitting on her porch, staring at the empty swing set. One day I just brought over a pie. Didn’t say much. Just sat. And she cried. Said, "I’ve got everything, but I’m so lonely." Money didn’t fix that. Connection did. And connection costs nothing but time and presence.

And money can’t buy gratitude. I’ve seen guys get rich, then start complaining about everything. "This coffee’s too expensive." "This shirt’s not right." They’ve got everything, but they’ve lost the ability to see what they have. That’s not happiness. That’s a trap. Money doesn’t teach you to be thankful. It just gives you more to be ungrateful about.

How I Navigate This Mess (The Practical Stuff)

So what do you do? You don’t throw money away. You don’t chase it like it’s the answer. You use it like the tool it is. Here’s how I do it:

I budget for "happy things," not "stuff." Every month, I set aside $50 for experiences. Not for a new tool. For us. Last week, it was ice cream at the park after school. We sat on the grass, and Lily said, "Dad, this is the best." That’s the real thing money bought. Not the ice cream. The time* we got to share it. I call it "the $50 rule." If it’s not for a memory, it’s not worth it.

I say "no" to the shiny things. My boss offered me a promotion last year. It meant more money, but it meant more hours. I said no. Because I’d already seen what that did to Dave. I told him, "I’ve got a family to be with, not just a job to do." And you know what? I kept my job. And I kept my kids. That’s the real* win.

I talk to my kids about money. Not like a lecture. Just real talk. "This is why I work late, so we can have this." "This is why we don’t get the fancy cereal." I tell them, "Money’s a tool. It’s not the point." And they get it. Maya even started a little "helping" jar—she saves her allowance to buy a gift for Mrs. Gable. That’s not about money. It’s about heart. And that’s what money can’t* buy.

Common Mistakes I’ve Made (And You’ll Probably Make Too)

Mistake #1: Thinking a bigger house = more happiness. I did this. After Sarah died, I thought, "If I get a bigger house, it’ll feel like her space." But it just felt empty. Now I know: happiness isn’t in the walls. It’s in the people who fill them. So I keep my house small. It’s cozy. It’s ours*.

Mistake #2: Using money to "fix" grief. I bought Lily a new bike after Sarah died. Thought it’d make her smile. But she just sat on it, quiet. I realized I was trying to buy her back to happy. But you can’t buy grief away. You just do the next thing. Like, "Hey, want to ride the bike with* me?" That’s the real fix. Not the bike.

Mistake #3: Thinking "more money = less stress." I thought that for years. Then I got a big bonus. And I started stressing about more stuff—like "What if I lose this?" "What if the market crashes?" Money didn’t reduce stress. It changed it. Now I know: stress comes from wanting more. Not from having less. So I focus on enough*. Not "more."

The Real Lesson (Not the One You’re Hoping For)

Here’s the thing: happiness isn’t a thing you buy. It’s a choice you make, every day, with the tools you have. Money gives you more choices. But it doesn’t make the choice for you.

When Lily was sick last month, I had the money to take her to the best doctor. But I also had the time to sit with her on the couch, reading her favorite book. The doctor was good. But the time? That’s what she needed. That’s what I needed. Money bought the doctor. Presence bought the healing.

So here’s my advice, straight from the toolbox: Don’t chase money for happiness. Chase security and time and connection*. Use money to create moments, not just buy* things. When you’re tempted to spend, ask: "Will this make my kids smile*?" If not, skip it. And if you’re feeling empty even with money? That’s not the money’s fault. It’s your heart needing something else. Go find it. Without* money.

You just do the next thing. Fix the leaky faucet. Buy the ice cream. Sit with your kid. That’s how you build happiness. Not with a bank account. With your hands.

— Jimmy Hawkins, just a dad figuring it out