I still remember the first time I heard that fairytales don't come true, that there is no "happily ever after." I misunderstood the lesson then, as I misunderstood it for a long time afterward. At first I thought it meant that no one gets to be happy forever because everyone dies in the end.
When I got older and more cynical I thought it meant that even after boy and girl found, lost, and then found it each other again, their happiness didn't -- couldn't -- last forever. Because, you know, shit happens. Eventually they start fighting over trivial matters, they get sick of each other, they compromise on everything until they forget what they originally wanted for themselves, and then eventually someone dies.
But even if the fairytale had absolutely nothing to do with love and romance, I figured it meant that whatever made you happy at the conclusion of that one particular story still had to end one day. Nothing lasts forever, after all.
Where I got it all wrong, however, was thinking that only these huge events in our lives have the capability to make us happy; for instance, graduating with honors, getting that promotion with a huge salary increase, finding that one big love and saying "I do" at the altar, buying your first home, having children and witnessing them go through all the same things that brought you so much joy once. Or if none of these things happened for you, then what ultimately made you happy were life-altering or life-defining in some way at the very least.
What I've learned, perhaps even more clearly these past few years, is that while there is no story that ends happily ever after, it's not because we're doomed souls. It's because within each of us are almost infinite stories, one happening at least every day. We find happiness within each one of them only if commit ourselves to finding it. It's not the scenery, it's the view.
How many times have we assumed that a former celebrity's life had gone downhill simply because he or she seemed to have disappeared into thin air? We think that fame was the fairytale and that when it was over then it only meant sadness, even despair, for the once-famous. What we see is a life now ordinary, but for that person, the view could be just the opposite: it could mean a welcome solitude, a private existence, of living for oneself and not for others.
I could look at my own big stories and feel like a failure: a(nother) failed marriage, no children, losing a beloved home, starting over at my age. But I don't. I've grieved, to be sure; I've found myself lying in bed inside a dark room for days, not wanting to get up. But the point is that I got up: that's MY main story. Every day, I choose to find something I can be happy about. A coworker who tells me on her last day at work how much she loves me; a customer who thanks me profusely for my help; a friend who texts out of the blue to say she's thinking of me; a sister who calls to ask for advice; a boyfriend who says I have a cute butt.
But these don't come out of nowhere; we really do make our own stories. Every day as well, I walk into work with a smile on my face and try to make life easier for everyone. I want to help the people I work with, I really do want to help customers. I reach out to friends, even if only through a comment on one of their Facebook posts, and I try to do the same with my sisters even if we all live so far apart. I pinch my boyfriend's butt, tell him how handsome he is, as often as I can.
We get as much as we give; we need to be grateful for whatever we get. I never got the fairytale, but I got better. I learned how to be happy in spite of the constant challenges and the pain. In a way I get to be happy ever after, if only one day at a time.
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