Happiness is often portrayed as the ultimate goal, the state we all strive for. Yet, for some of us, the prospect of being truly happy can feel daunting, even terrifying. It’s not that I don’t want to be happy—deep down, I crave it like anyone else. But there’s a quiet fear that creeps in, whispering that happiness is fragile, fleeting, or even dangerous. This fear isn’t always easy to explain, but it’s real, and it shapes how I navigate life. Here’s why I’m scared to be happy.
I have not cared about anything or anyone in a long time. Mostly because I have been broken and in pain for so long.
10 years ago to this day, I had a family and was happy. Married for 15 years, my son was alive and I was the man who my son looked up too and wants me to be again. I loved with all my heart. I could trust very easily. There was no darkness in my life, heart or my soul.
Then, a week and half later, everything came crashing down.
July 3rd-4th 2015, my heart and soul got broken. I caught my wife, the love of my life, cheating on me. What really hurt, was she only met him because of her acting classes that I supported her in doing. I had put trust and faith into her and she broke it with ease.
My heart and soul shattered. What was once full of love and trust, burned up in flames and a dark shadow casted in my heart and soul.
We officially separated July 5th, 2015. Then 6 days later, I paid the ultimate price of sacrificing for love and family.
On July 11, 2015, around 830 pm, I had a massive stroke. I woke up in the emergency room and was told by the doctor what had happened to me and that the next few hours was critical. What happened that night, I never thought would ever happen. My wife showed up and instead of showing compassion, she started a fight with me. The last thing I did what tell her to get out and as I watched her walk out, I had another massive stroke and flatlined for 2 minutes.
Sometime on July 12th, 2015 I woke up in a private room in the hospital. I was not expected to wake up for days, weeks or months. The man that woke up was not the man who died. From the ashes of a once great man, a broken man had risen. A man with memories erased, empty of feelings, and a heart full of pain and darkness.
I am here today because of my son. Paul was the one who took care of me. He would get up, make sure I took my medicine, cook breakfast, go to school, come home and make sure I had dinner and was taking care of myself. He did this for months until I could do it for myself. All that at the tender age of 15.
Paul was the reason for me to rebuild my life. He needed his father to be here and to guide him. He needed me not just to lead by example, but to show him that when you fall, you get up and keep fighting. For him to see by actions that I loved him and he could come to me anytime when he needed anything.
As long as Paul was alive and moving forward in life, was all the happiness I needed.
The second time I died was Oct 25, 2021. That was the day my son Paul died from a car accident. Never in a million years did I ever think he would pass away at such a young age. He had his whole life ahead of you. My heart completely broke from his passing.
Paul was a loving, caring, mature 21-year-old with an old soul. He cared about others and would help someone in any way he could. He would lead by example. Not once did he ever say look what I did, he would say Dad there was someone who needed help, and I helped them without letting others know so they wouldn’t be embarrassed. He would donate time, items, and other resources to help those in need.
Paul had many dreams and aspirations. He was a computer whiz, gamer, an amazing cook, and caretaker of people. He was planning on going back to school to get a degree in business and computers.
My son had every great quality that you could think of. He would own up to his mistakes and learn from them. He was compassionate, caring, loving, giving, empathic, honest, and the most courageous man I have ever known. He was the best son, grandson, cousin, nephew, and friend that you could ask for.
He was the one who brought me back to life, back to having a heart and able to move forward in life. His passing shattered me into oblivion. I died with him.
It has been 3 years and 8 months since my son passed. He has been my guardian angel and guiding me. Last year on the 3rd anniversary of his death, he told me that he wants the man that I once was, back. I am working on that not just for him, but for me.
One of the biggest reasons happiness scares me is the dread of losing it. When things are going well—when life feels light and full of possibility—there’s a nagging voice in the back of my mind that says, “This won’t last.” I have been happy twice in life. And each time, I have died. Past experiences of joy being ripped away, whether through loss, betrayal, or unexpected hardship, have left me wary. It’s as if allowing myself to fully embrace happiness is tempting fate, inviting the universe to balance the scales with pain. So, I hold back, keeping one foot in the grave, one foot in life, afraid to let myself soar.
For some, happiness is a familiar friend, a state they slip into with ease. For me, it’s more like a stranger. I’ve spent so much time navigating challenges, managing stress, or simply surviving that happiness feels foreign, almost unnatural. When it arrives, I don’t always know what to do with it. I question whether I deserve it or if I’m even doing it “right.” This unfamiliarity breeds discomfort, and instead of basking in the moment, I find myself waiting for the other shoe to drop, retreating to the safety of the known—my pain and struggles.
Happiness for me comes with a hidden burden: the pain of the past that haunts and scares me. It has been so long that I have been happy. I feel the pressure to be happy, to prove to myself that I can and to not be afraid of trying. Admitting that happiness scares me feels like I am a failure. Society tells us to “choose happiness,” as if it’s a switch I can flip and keep on. But life isn’t that simple. The fear of disappointing myself and my son by slipping back into sadness or doubt makes me hesitant to embrace joy in the first place.
There’s a raw vulnerability in being happy that can feel exposing. When I’m happy, my guard is down. I’m open, hopeful, and invested in the moment. But that openness leaves me defenseless against potential hurt. If I let myself love deeply, dream big, or believe in a brighter future, I’m risking heartbreak, disappointment, or rejection. It’s safer to stay guarded, to keep my expectations low and my heart shielded. Happiness, in its purest form, demands trust—trust in myself, in others, in life—and that’s a leap I’m often too scared to take.
For me, happiness feels like a betrayal. If I’m happy while others are suffering—whether it’s a loved one, a community, or even strangers halfway across the world—it can feel selfish. How can I allow myself to smile when there’s so much pain out there? This guilt is especially heavy when I’ve experienced trauma or hardship. Happiness can feel like I’m dismissing my past, as if moving forward means erasing the struggles that shaped me. So, I cling to my pain, not because I want to, but because it feels like loyalty to my story.
Despite these fears, I’m learning that happiness doesn’t have to be perfect or permanent to be worthwhile. It’s okay to feel joy in small doses, to let it wash over me without clinging to it or fearing its departure. I’m trying to reframe happiness as a moment, not a destination, and to see it as something I can visit without needing to own. It’s a slow process, unlearning the instincts that keep me guarded, but I’m starting to believe that I can be happy and still be me—flawed, cautious, and beautifully human.
Being scared to be happy isn’t about rejecting joy; it’s about wrestling with the complexities of what it means to feel it. My fear is a reflection of my experiences, my doubts, and my hopes. And maybe, just maybe, acknowledging that fear is the first step toward letting happiness in—not as a constant state, but as a fleeting, precious guest I’m learning to welcome.
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