When's The Last Time You Were Actually Happy?

When's the last time you were actually happy?

A friend asked me that recently—right after a conversation that stripped away my practiced composure. They saw through it. Through the laugh that doesn’t reach my eyes anymore. Through the easy answers. Through the version of me that learned how to function in survival mode so well, even I started to believe the illusion.

“When’s the last time you were actually happy?” they asked quietly, searching my face.

And I didn’t have to think long. I knew the exact moment.

It was mid-2023. I had taken my kids to the park. The sun was warm, laughter echoed around me, and I was still pregnant with Malakhi. I remember watching them run, their little faces flushed and alive, and feeling this fullness in my chest that can only be described as peace. That was it—the last time I was truly happy. Not just okay, not just holding it together, but happy.

Then everything changed.

When I lost Malakhi, it was like someone reached inside me and ripped out the light. Life got harder, darker. I still had moments—tiny bursts of joy that flickered and died just as quickly—but the kind of happiness that fills every inch of you? That was gone. And when my kids were taken, those sparks became rarer still. Happiness turned into something I could only glimpse from a distance.

So I learned to pretend.

I got good at it, too.

Because that’s what it feels like—walking away from a fire that’s consumed everything you once loved. The flames are behind me, but the heat still burns my back. And in front of me? Just an endless desert.

Some days I turn back toward the fire because the pain reminds me I’m still alive. Other days, I can’t take another step forward. Those are the days I hit the ground, knees in the sand, lungs empty. The days I disappear. Go quiet. Because how do you speak when all that’s left in you is the sound of wailing and the ache of trying to keep breathing through it?

I used to think drowning was the worst kind of suffering—thrashing, fighting, desperate for air. But the truth is, there’s something far worse.

It’s standing in the middle of nothingness. The fire behind you, the desert ahead. The silence heavy enough to break you. And realizing you’re still here.

Still moving. Somehow.

Even if happiness feels like something that existed in another lifetime.

And lately… I keep having these thoughts about how much easier it would be to just not exist. Because if you aren’t here, it can’t hurt anymore, right? And that makes it worse, because I don’t even want to die... I just want the pain to stop. I don’t fixate on it, not exactly—but sometimes the idea of feeling nothing feels like relief. Then the guilt sets in, because nobody deserves to carry the kind of grief I’ve known.

I understand loss so intimately now that I’d do anything to keep anyone else from ever feeling it. So, I stay.

Even when it hurts.

Even when I can’t see the horizon.

Even when the desert feels endless.

I stay—because somewhere inside the ashes and silence.. there has to be more than this.

Even though I don't believe that right now.