Here’s what I’ve been thinking about: the myth of constant happiness. For decades, I taught students that ethics meant striving for a life of flourishing. I believed, in my own quiet way, that true living meant chasing a steady state of contentment. I’d even tell my wife, "We’re building a happy life, one good day at a time."
Then, last winter, I collapsed. Not dramatically—just a slow, suffocating exhaustion after a year of pushing "happiness" like a checklist: more travel, deeper connections, perfect meals. I’d been chasing a horizon that kept moving. My wife, watching me grind, finally said, "Ray, you’re not happy. You’re just tired of being unhappy."
The philosophers called this the eudaimonia myth—mistaking happiness for a destination rather than a byproduct of engagement. Aristotle knew it: true flourishing (eudaimonia) comes from doing—from wrestling with meaning, not from avoiding discomfort. But what does that actually mean for how we live? It means the hard truth I’ve spent years unlearning: happiness isn’t the goal. It’s the quiet hum of a life lived fully, even when the hum is interrupted by grief, frustration, or the simple ache of being human.
I came to terms with it not through a grand epiphany, but in small moments: sitting with my coffee, noticing the steam rise without needing to do anything with it. The grief over my father’s death still stings, but now I let it sit beside me, not as a barrier to joy, but as part of the landscape. The myth shattered when I stopped measuring my days by how happy they felt and started noticing how alive they made me feel—when I was teaching a student a difficult idea, or walking in the rain without an umbrella.
Happiness isn’t a state to be achieved. It’s a companion that shows up when we stop running from the mess. The constant chase was the real unhappiness. Now, I let the discomfort breathe. And in that space? I find the quiet, steady warmth I’d been searching for.
— Ray Bates, still asking questions