“Happily” — My Tattoo, My Reminder, My Practice

I have a tiny tattoo on my right hand that simply reads: happily.

Not “be happy.” Not “get happy someday.” Just happily — one small word that’s meant to live where I can see it and remind me of a little, stubborn truth: happiness isn’t a finish line. It’s a way of traveling.

When I was younger I used to think happiness was something you earned later. “I’ll be happy when I finish grad school.” “I’ll be happy when we get through this season.” “I’ll be happy when the renovation is done.” It’s easy to live like that — always reaching for the next checkpoint, telling yourself you just need to get through one more thing.

But that is a recipe for always wishing time away.

A Tiny Word with Big Demands

“Happily” is not passive. It’s an adverb, a word to describe an action, practice-y kind of reminder. It doesn’t say, “Wait until you’ve completed X, then feel good.” It says, “Can you find a way to move through X happily?” That requires work. It requires attention. It requires choosing presence on purpose.

Want to sit through that 90-minute meeting happily? Try bringing a small intention: notice three useful things, doodle one tiny idea in the margin, or plan one quick action you can take afterward. The meeting doesn’t have to be thrilling — but you can still be present and slightly amused by whatever shows up.

Want to do grad school happily? Break the big slog into days that feel meaningful. Schedule a micro-reward after a reading block. Pair a difficult task with a small sensory joy (tea, sunlight, a 5-minute walk). Those micro-choices change how the days add up.

It’s Not Naïve — It’s Intentional

Some people hear this and think it’s naive: “You can’t be happy while dealing with real hard stuff.” True. Not every day is sunny. But happily isn’t about forcing smiles; it’s about choosing how you move through what is. It’s about noticing the small human things that make the gray parts softer.

You won’t be happy every minute. But you can choose a gentler posture toward your life so that when you look back, you don’t wish large chunks of time away. You remember the doing, not just the finished things.