How I Measure a Good Day

I used to think a good day was being happy. That if I woke up not happy, I wasn't going to have a good day, and there was nothing I could do about it.

For me, being happy meant I had time to do my work and actually did it. That I ate well, and my body felt healthy because of it. That I laughed with my friends and wasn’t anxious about anything like a presentation in class or a doctor’s appointment later in the day. And the list goes on.

But that was never normal, and it never happened. I couldn't tell you the last day I had that ticked all the boxes.

Now, a good day looks different. It’s quieter. Softer. Much messier.

It’s not about feeling great all day long — it’s about the little moments that make it feel okay to be here. Like drinking a coffee I actually had time to enjoy, and feeling productive while doing it. Or texting someone just to say, “this reminded me of you.” It’s catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror and not hating what I see. That all counts.

Some days, the good part is just making it through. Finishing something I didn’t want to start. Cooking myself dinner even if it’s just butter with a side of pasta. Letting myself lie down for twenty minutes (usually more) without calling it “being lazy.”

I used to think happiness was the whole point — now I think peace is. And peace doesn’t always come with a smile or a serotonin boost. Sometimes peace is just the absence of pressure.

A good day might still include stress, or tiredness, or things I wish I’d done differently. But now I look for the softness in the in between. Walking to class playing whatever song it is I’m hyper fixating on, and feeling like I’m some character in a movie. A deep breath I didn’t realize I needed. Feeling like I showed up — for work, for a friend, for myself — even just a little bit.

As I’ve gotten older, especially in these last four years of college, my ideas have changed. A lot has changed. I'm not who I was, but I'm also not who I thought I wanted to be. And I’m happy I’m not.

Part of coming to college is learning to critically think. Not just about textbooks or lectures, but about everything: yourself, your habits, the way you speak to people, the way you speak to yourself. What you read, how you read it, and why you’re reading it in the first place. Everything is much more complex than I used to seem. You start to see the difference between the things you thought you wanted and cared about and the things that actually make you feel like you. And that shift can be a little disorienting — but also kind of freeing.

I don’t expect joy to carry me through the day anymore. I know I can, and will, wake up feeling less than happy. Now, I just want the day to make space for me. And when it does, that’s always enough.