The trouble with happiness is that everyone keeps trying to sell it to you. It comes in so many different packages: bottles, retreats, journals, apps, linen trousers, collagen powders, Scandinavian candles, and extremely small portions of fermented cabbage. Happiness has become a subscription service with optional breathwork.
Aristotle, who wrote before the invention of wellness influencers and therefore had an unfair advantage, might have found much of this suspect. For him, happiness was not the giddy sensation of finding parking outside Aldi or discovering the good cheese is half price. It was eudaimonia—flourishing—though sadly does not sound nearly as glamorous when shouted across a yoga studio.
