On embracing small h happy

I've spoken about this before, and I'm sure I'll continue banging on about it for as long as the internet will have me...but anyone who says that being happy is easy is a bloody liar. Well, either that, or they should consider themselves supremely lucky. I feel like we're all told to strive for “big H Happy” - and there's a pervasive notion that your life won't be complete until you've found it. 

The “big H Happy”, however, is elusive. Or it has been for me. It's not entirely “Happy’s” fault - of late, it's been fighting against some pretty stacked odds. Aftershock from some nasty heartbreak? Check. Illness in the family? Check. Loss of a beloved family pet? Check. The kind of work stress that bleeds into your life and makes you wake up in a cold sweat? Check. Encroaching uncertainty about what to do next? Check. So I can't blame “Happy” for struggling to push through all of that noise. 

I have a solution though. I'm not trying for “big H Happy”: I'm taking small slices of “small h happy” where I can, and building them up like a jigsaw puzzle. And it turns out that, once you take the pressure off, pieces of “happy” are much easier to come by. I find mine in good people, in creative outlets, and in indulging my various geeky proclivities. 

So here's what I must remember: write more (writing brings me pieces of happy), bake more (baking brings me pieces of happy), spend more time with family and friends (my loved ones bring me pieces of happy), embrace that new person who makes me smile (he brings me pieces of happy). When I let these things slide, my pieces of happy diminish, and everything else starts to get on top of me. But when that happens, I am letting myself be defeated. I know how to make things better, and I can make things better: I don't need to be rescued, as I can bloody well do it myself. I am woman, hear me roar...or something along those lines.

So here it is, my advice for anyone struggling with the hunt for the elusive “big H Happy” - don't beat yourself up for not having found it yet. Embrace “small h happy” where you can, and build up those little pieces of happiness until - who knows - maybe we’ll all realise we never needed sodding “big H Happy” anyway.

On generosity

Around Christmas seems a good time to talk a bit about generosity. I like to think that, successfully or not, I am someone who always tries to be generous and patient with others. I am a great bestower of benefit of the doubt. I hand out second and third chances like I have an endless supply. And I will always, without fail, try to understand someone else’s behaviour rather than judge them for it.

In the most basic of ways, I also like to be generous with those I love and care about. Hunting out Christmas and birthday presents, for example, presents a challenge that I relish - trying to come up with gifts that are thoughtful, meaningful, and will make someone smile. Hell, recently I spent way too much time researching how to cobble together a plastic figurine out of disparate parts, just to create a physical embodiment of a really strange in-joke. Almost glued my fingers together in the process of making it, too. It went down well though, so all’s well that ends well.

What I have realised, however, is that whilst I’m endlessly searching for ways to be generous to others, I don’t really allow myself the same kindness. I am, and have always been, my own harshest critic - my own worst enemy. My curious and emotional brain will forever replay memories or experiences and find ways to fixate on the littlest things that I perceive to have gone “wrong”. It won’t linger with the same loving attention to detail over anything I might have done well.

A couple of recent experiences encapsulated this over the Christmas period. In a silly, superficial way, there was the Christmas dessert fandango. (Yes, I just wanted to use the word “fandango” there). We had an unusual and unconventional Christmas in the Cave household this year - still lovely, still family-filled, but with slight deviations from tradition. One of these deviations included a scrapping of Christmas cake, Christmas pudding, and mince pies from the menu, and a passing of the baton to me to create a fitting end to our unconventional feast. Somewhat naively, I opted to bake a tart I’d never made before (aaah, rookie error…). Whilst my family were unwaveringly kind, complimented the flavour and even - in my Dad’s case - went back for seconds, I couldn’t focus on the positives. All I could see was the slightly under baked pastry…the grainy texture from the almonds…the slightly split filling. And I could not find a way not to beat myself up about it, try as I might. Don’t get me wrong, no tears were shed over the tart - but it niggled away at me in a way it really shouldn’t have.

On a less superficial note, this past month has not been without its emotional ups and downs for me either. It finally became apparent that, after a 2 year long relationship filled with “will we, won’t we” off again-on again tension with my significant person, he will never actually love me the way I love him (I am aware that this makes me sound like a sad sack, and I’ve dealt with that already, don’t worry). On coming to terms with this, I tortured myself with the question “why aren’t I good enough?” I honestly couldn’t stop thinking it - even though it's a question that has no good or satisfactory answer. It didn’t even occur to me that my default position could - and probably should - have been “Well I am good enough. If he can’t see that, I should stop worrying about why and just move on”. My go-to stance is never generosity towards myself.

I’m sure I’m not unusual here. I don’t know why it’s easier to offer flexibility and kindness to others than it is to yourself. Perhaps it’s an ego thing - we feel we ought to hold ourselves to a higher standard. Or perhaps it’s the complete opposite - patting ourselves on the back, or pointing out our strengths, makes us feel uncomfortable.

There isn’t an easy solution to this. I sincerely doubt anyone can just flip a switch and start bestowing generosity upon themselves. But maybe, when I’m thinking about changes I want to make in the new year, I’ll pause for a minute and remember to add this to the list. Over time, and with a bit of practice, maybe I’ll learn to forgive myself for the things I had no control over, to ease up on myself for the mistakes I’ve made, and to take stock of the good things I’ve managed to achieve. Maybe we could all do with a little bit more of that in our lives.

On Yorkshire

Though I’m a Londoner at heart, a part of me will always belong to Yorkshire. I spent four years ensconced in the comforting embrace of York, and it came at such a formative time in my life that I think it shaped me more than it would have if I moved there now.

I didn’t necessarily fit easily into life in the north. There was some…how can I put this…reverse snobbery, I suppose? I faced quite a few knowing nods and snide asides about my southern status, made all the worse of course by the fact that I was “a Londoner” (so obviously a pretentious snob). This probably wasn't helped by the fact that I speak in what is arguably a bit of a posh voice. None of the comments were uttered with malicious intent, but I did spend my first few weeks up north feeling a bit defensive about my non-Yorkshire roots.

However, all of the above came much more from the fact that I was dealing with northern students – all slightly nervous, insecure teenagers like myself, who had been let loose in the wild for the first time and were trying to work out what it was to be independent and “an adult”.  Once we’d all gotten to grips with that, and noticed that our differences were far outweighed by our similarities, we rubbed along together quite nicely.

If I had to put my finger on exactly what it is that makes me love Yorkshire so much, I don’t think I could do it easily. There’s a whole host of reasons that combine to create a pretty potent, gut-based feeling that turns me into a silly mess when I pass through York on a train (cue embarrassing tears), or makes me do an excited double-take when I hear a Yorkshire burr out and about on the streets of London.

A lot of it has to do with nostalgia and personal significance, of course. I did a lot of my growing up in Yorkshire. I learnt to be on my own there. I had my first real relationship (and my first real heartbreak). I made friends who were, for the first time, completely unrelated to who my family knew, or who I went to school with. All of those things are important turning points in a young woman’s life, so York – for me – has a rosy tint to it that has nothing to do with its geography or character.

However, I also quickly learnt that there was something about the nature of the region that suited me well. York itself was the perfect size and pace for me – not too big, not too small – and had so much history seeping out of its pores that you could feel it like a physical presence. The people, too, were on the whole very different to those I’d grown up around in London. They were less self-involved. Friendlier. Sometimes (read: often) a lot more blunt and forthright…but I loved that. In a city like London, everyone is rushing from one thing to the next, trying to dodge tourists, trying not to catch the eye of a stranger who might try to talk to them. In York – and, as it turned out, in other cities, towns and villages in Yorkshire that I explored – people acknowledged each other and didn’t seem to be in their own bubbles so much.

There’s an honesty about the Yorkshire attitude that I like. And there’s a picturesque Englishness, a sense of culture and history, about the place. I’m not saying that you can’t find these things in London, but as a capital city my hometown is a beautiful melting pot of cultures, experiences and people. I love that – I’m happy to be surrounded by that – but a part of me will always pine for the sense of identity and homeliness that I feel every time I go back to Yorkshire. For me, it will always be my second home.

On a few acknowledgements

I appreciate that I've been fairly quiet of late. Many of you will know why already, but for those who don't...my Dad has been ill - in and out of hospital for a few weeks now, ill - and it's made quite a few things take a back seat for a while. Before I get back into the routine of writing properly, I feel I need to share a few acknowledgements and words of gratitude to those who have been an unerring source of support over the past few weeks.

First and foremost, to my parents. It is not easy, having your life turned upside down. It is not easy to be upbeat, or to be strong, but that is just what my wonderful Mum and Dad have been. Dad - positive, optimistic tower of a man that he is - has gone about the past few weeks with dignity, strength and good spirit. His strength, and his determination to continue looking after those around him when many people would only be able to focus on themselves, has reminded me of just why I'm so proud to be his daughter. My mother, also, has proven to be the most immensely strong tiger of a woman (stolen my Dad's turn of phrase there). She has faced this unexpected and unfair twist of fate with a determination to see it through and be an unwavering pillar of support for both my Dad and for me, and I could never thank her enough for that.

To my friends, I also owe a debt of gratitude. I always suspected that I was particularly lucky in the friendship group I have built up around myself, but the past few weeks have proved it. I couldn't possibly name check all of the people who have been kind and how, as there have been so many and it would take pages and pages, but I hope they know that everything - from the smallest message to the biggest gesture - has been hugely appreciated, and made me feel very lucky to have them all. Whether quietly or loudly, they have all provided the support and the protective cocoon that I needed.

To my big little brother - words fail me. Though he's suddenly found himself further away, he made sure it didn't feel like that when I needed him. Distracting me when I needed it, listening to me when I needed it, and providing excellent big little brother hugs (which cannot be bottled or replicated)...I couldn't have asked for a better brother, and never has he felt more like family.

And finally, to my person. In spite of all of the mess of us - in spite of the complicated tangle we wove for ourselves, and the personal struggles and mountains he's having to scale on his own - as soon as I needed him, he was there. He dropped everything, without question or complaint. And even if he doesn't know what that means - I do. And for now, that's enough.

I hope this hasn't been too sentimental or too saccharine. I don't want to dwell too much on the past, or the unkindness of the hand my family has been dealt - I just want to acknowledge the wonderful people who have restored a little of my faith in the world, and helped me to keep going, keep positive, and find strength in myself that I didn't know I had.

So thank you. Really.

On old friends

This past weekend, I was walking down the platform at King’s Cross on my way to Spitalfields market, and found myself walking towards a very familiar face: one I hadn’t seen in a couple of years, but instantly recognisable nonetheless.

Adam was at my sixth form college (let’s not think too hard about how long ago that actually was), and was one of those people who instantly welcomed me in – slightly awkward teenage outsider that I was at the time – and became a fast, firm friend. Since then, we’ve kept in touch very sporadically (a lot of the onus for that falls on me): we went to different universities, had new friendship circles, and completely non-maliciously drifted apart until we barely saw each other any more.

None of that, however, detracted from the genuine pleasure I felt when I recognised him walking towards me the other day. A lovely (speedy) reunion took place, complete with hugs and giggles and slightly hopeless attempts to catch up on ALL THE NEWS over the course of a couple of minutes, before he had to jump on his next train. We made noises about meeting up soon for a proper catch up, and I must stay true to that and not fail to follow through.

My point is this: there is a certain kind of joy that comes from old friends, which can’t be replicated or bottled. It’s like a strange sort of magic, guaranteed to lift the spirits, and it doesn’t necessarily happen with everyone – just with those particularly special people who you’ve somehow managed to lose touch with, but certainly not intentionally.

Our lives are neither fleeting nor straightforward. Friendships come in different shapes and sizes as we grow up, and I think it’s actually quite rare to have lifelong friends. For the most part, we all experience people coming into our lives and taking on an important role for a particular stretch, and then more often than not life takes us in different directions and we lose touch. This doesn’t lessen the impact of those friendships, or mean they were of any less worth than those that lasted longer. As we grow and change, the kind of relationships we have – and the kind of things we look for in other people – naturally changes with us.

Maybe that’s why seeing an old friend is such a pleasure: you’re not just reminded of how much you loved that person, you’re also reminded of an old version of yourself. If you’re lucky, it’s a version of yourself that you can look back on fondly, even if they’re pretty different from present-day you. And, whether you and your old friend have grown in similar ways, or whether there’s still an echo of the old you in there, you may just find you can slip easily back into that same old friendly chemistry. If – as in my case – that’s a comfortable and welcoming fit, there’s really nothing nicer.

What it comes down to for me is this – life is about people. Life is about connections. Personally, I’ve always found that to be more important than places or work or ambition. The experiences I’ve had with the people around me have shaped me into the Jess that I am now, so I will never overlook the importance of those people when our paths happen to cross again.

On happiness

My mother has a saying that I rather admire: it’s only when you stop asking yourself whether or not you’re happy, that you realise you’re actually happy.

In the world we live in, there seems to be a lot of pressure to be happy, and to think very hard and very often about whether or not you are. Whether that comes from the proliferation of self-help books, reality television programmes where people search for THE BEST partner or THE BEST job, glossy magazines, or just good-natured but irritating friends – the question “yes, but are you happy though?”, and the sad frown and tilt of the head that go with it, are ever present.

My question is this: if you’re constantly worrying about whether or not you’ve reached the mecca of happiness, can you really ever get there? I think my Mum has a point. By the very nature of the thing, happiness can’t go hand in hand with nervous worrying. And yet the reality is that it’s much harder than you’d think to stop anxiously checking in with yourself. Am I happy? Am I doing everything I should be doing? Am I surrounding myself with the right people? Am I in the right job for me? If I get all of those elements right, will I be able to relax and believe I’m happy?

Getting those questions out of your head can be nigh on impossible. Or that’s my experience of it, anyway. Maybe other people are able to stroll through life, blissfully unquestioning - blissfully comfortable in who they are and how they feel about their lot. But I find it hard to imagine what that’s like.

Of course, feeling more comfortable with who you are, and caring less about what other people think of you, must go some way to helping with this (I’ve touched on that before, which those of you who weren’t put off by the word “Hanson” will know). And yet it can’t be everything. Because learning to ignore the gripes and demands of other people’s agendas doesn’t necessarily mean you’ve learnt to ignore the gripes and demands of your own.

We tend to hold ourselves to a very high standard. Perhaps it comes from the dawning realisation that you only live once (can’t believe I just used “YOLO”…oh dear), and a slight desperation to make some kind of positive impact on the world. Now that can be as grand or as small as you please, but it does mean that there’s this permanent niggling at the edges of one’s subconscious – the feeling that you should be making the most of every moment you have.

I’m sure that’s true to a certain extent: that we should try not to waste the time we have on anything that we feel isn’t what we want, or doesn’t feel right. However, there’s a balancing act that has to be done to avoid tipping over into a persistent state of paranoia, surely? Because who says you have to constantly be doing grand and amazing things in order to be making the most of life – in order to be happy?

I don’t think I have an answer to this yet, unfortunately. Whilst I’m conscious that I shouldn’t be constantly worrying about whether or not I’m making the most of my time, and as a result whether or not that means I’m “happy”, I find it hard to train myself out of that mindset. Perhaps one day I’ll be able to find the key – I’ll relax, stop asking whether I’m happy, and actually be happy. Don’t worry: if I figure out the trick to doing that, I’ll share the secret with you guys too. Sharing is caring, after all.

On the Internet

Ever since the Internet popped into existence, humanity has had a whole new world (pardon the Disney lyric) of opportunity open up to us – but also a new complex and thorny maze to navigate.

Now, I love the Internet. I love the way it enables you to connect with people you never would have encountered before. I love the platform it provides for creators of all shapes and forms to share their work with the world. I love the easy access to knowledge I would have struggled to gain before. And whilst I am not quite a child of the Internet in the way that mid-nineties babies are (growing up with WiFi and buttons on their phones that instantly plunge them into the online world), I don’t really remember a time without it – even when it meant waiting patiently for the dial-up connection to go through, and asking Jeeves instead of Google.

Much as I love the Internet, however, I will be the first to admit that it has turned us into a generation of snoopy stalkers. It’s so easy to dig up information now. Do it often enough, and you can become scarily good at it. I – in fact – have become scarily good at it. That’s not a popular thing to admit: that you have partaken in online snooping, much less that you’re actually quite a dab hand at it. I understand why, but this is a safe space and I’m all about honesty. So I hold my hand up as a skilled e-snooper.

Before you rush to judge me, bear in mind that a lot of the skills I have developed, I have actually developed because they serve me well professionally. I’m very good at sourcing footage for mood films, whether that’s “can you find me a shot of some people riding on public transport in Tokyo?” or “we need some footage of a woman looking sad whilst staring wistfully out to sea”. (Yes, my job can be quite niche). It’s also contributed to me being a helpful friend – a few months back, for example, a friend was searching for a particular weekly comic strip that was published in a national paper when he was young. He couldn’t remember the name of the strip, or the artist: he just had a vague recollection of the subject matter. Cue a quick Google, and a few minutes later I could give him full details of the strip and the artist in question.

I try not to abuse these skills too much, but it can be tempting: in the age of online dating, in particular. To give you an example, before I went on my one and only Tinder date experience (ask me for the story one day, if I haven’t told you already: it’s a good’un), I was feeling – I think understandably – quite nervous about meeting someone who could quite possibly have been a mad axe murderer. Mercifully though, I had a first name, a picture, and a profession to go on. It didn’t take long to get a bit more information and validate that this guy was in fact who he said he was, and – paranoid individual that I am – I made sure I gave my flatmate his surname and the lowdown on him before I went out. You know – just in case he did actually murder me with an axe…

Things like Jessie Cave (yes, the other one) and her series of Love Sick doodles reassure me that I’m not wrong to think my behaviour is quite common. But I don’t know whether I should take comfort from this. There’s a fine line between using e-snooping for work, or to safeguard against Tinder crazies…and sliding into the worrying quicksand of becoming a full-blown creeper. Whilst I’ve managed to maintain a safe distance from that behaviour (hopefully to the relief of those I know and love), the fact that it would be so easy to use my powers for evil makes me a bit concerned about the rest of our Internet-enabled society. Can we really trust others to draw the line where we do? Or are we destined to become a world of paranoid, nosey obsessives?

…I feel like it might be time to look at my privacy settings.