The happiest period of my life started the same year I stopped trying to be happy – and I know that sounds like something you’d read on a motivational poster, but the actual story involves a warehouse in Melbourne, a flight to Saigon, and a complete misunderstanding of what joy actually is

The happiest period of my life started the same year I stopped trying to be happy: It sounds like the sort of hollow sentiment you’d find printed on a cheap greeting card in a high-street shop, yet for me, it became a literal reality. We are often told that happiness is a goal to be chased, a destination to be reached, or a commodity to be purchased through self-help books and wellness retreats. In reality, most of us are running on a hamster wheel of “conditional joy,” believing that if we just secure that promotion, lose half a stone, or finally renovate the kitchen, we will arrive at a state of permanent bliss. I spent my twenties in London doing exactly that, measuring my worth by my postcode and my overtime hours. The shift didn’t happen in a meditation class or through a life coach; it happened via a gritty warehouse in Melbourne and a spontaneous flight to Saigon.

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