But are you happy?

My younger sister, Zandra, dreamt that I died. The dream was so vivid and emotional that she woke up in tears. Still shaken, she messaged our sister Salve, who then shared it in our family group chat. I responded with a joke that they should be the ones to serve during my wake. Salve asked, “Final request?” And I said, “my final request would be that you pray for me and for our biological mother, Bibian. Pray the Rosary for our souls.”

She asked if I was okay. I told her, “I’m just sick—but when am I ever not?”

Then she asked the question that silenced me for a moment: “Do you not find happiness here [on earth]?”

I answered, No.

She followed it up: “Don’t you have goals?”

I do. But only one goal really lingers: to die. For the sake of having one, maybe I’ll say—to pay all my debts. But the longing of my soul? To be reunited with Mama and Papa, my adoptive parents. And if it’s not too much to ask, to not be sent back to earth again. Life is tiring. And most days, too painful.

Does this make me ungrateful? I’d like to think not. I thank God every day—for mercy, for compassion, for provision. I know He has carried me when I could not walk. But does gratitude always translate to happiness?

People equate not feeling happy with being ungrateful or broken. I sometimes forget that it’s okay not to feel happy on this earth. Bishop Robert Barron reminds us—even joy has its paradox. In Vibrant Paradoxes, he writes:

“We all are unhappy… I know I’m missing something. That’s it. I’m missing requisite wealth, pleasure, power, or honor… That’s never the answer.” He continues, “Contrive a way to give your life away, and you’ll find the beatitudo that you’re actually seeking… ‘Lord, you’ve made us for yourself; therefore our heart is restless until it rests in thee.’”

In other words, a restless heart is not a defect—it’s a clue. It means we’re wired for something deeper than earthly satisfaction. As Bishop Barron explains, happiness—beatitudo—is not found by grasping outward comforts but by giving ourselves away in love and ultimately finding rest in God.

Even the Catechism of the Catholic Church affirms that “the desire for God is written in the human heart” (CCC 27), and only God can satisfy the deepest longing of the soul.

When Earth Feels Like Exile

I know prayer brings peace. I’ve felt it. Worship gives me comfort. But even prayer and worship, if done alone, feel incomplete. We were not made to worship in isolation. Christ reminds us of the greatest commandment: “Love one another as I have loved you” (John 13:34). But what happens when the “one another” part becomes the source of exhaustion?

The truth is, this world can be harsh. People can be cruel. Life feels more like exile than home. I often find myself saying: the world is not gentle. It is noisy, demanding, unkind. It wounds more than it heals. It destroys innocence, cheapens love, and celebrates pride. It teaches survival more than mercy. And when you’re tired, when you’re already bleeding inside, it gives you more reasons to retreat rather than hope. That’s the world I’ve come to know—not always, not from everyone, but often enough to leave marks on the soul.

I know I’m called to love, even the unlovable. But there’s a deep ache in me—a loneliness that no trip, no food, no success can cure. Happiness from things feels shallow. Happiness from people feels uncertain. And I am certain I don’t want to build a family of my own—so that kind of familial joy is out of reach.

I long for something gentler than this world.
I long for home.

Maybe this isn’t about despair—but about clarity. Maybe I finally understand that true joy—the joy that never fades—is not of this world. It’s in the arms of the One who made me. It’s with the people I loved and lost. It’s in a place where “He will wipe away every tear from their eyes… and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore.” (Revelation 21:4)

So no, I’m not giving up. But I am giving voice to the ache many of us feel but cannot name. I’m not running toward death. I am simply longing for heaven.

If I live longer, may it be to love more. And if I am to die, may it be to finally rest.