The Envy of Joy

There’s a unique cruelty in watching others experience happiness when you feel locked out of it. It’s not just that you can’t feel it yourself; it’s the stark contrast, the vivid reminder of what you’re missing. Their laughter, their smiles, their effortless ease with life—it all feels like a language you’ve forgotten how to speak, or maybe never learned in the first place.

I envy them. Not in the bitter, resentful way that makes you want to tear them down, but in the quiet, aching way that makes you wonder why you can’t have what they do. It’s not their success or their possessions I want—it’s their ability to feel, to access emotions that seem so foreign to me now.

I watch as they light up over the smallest things: a sunny day, a joke, a kind word. For them, joy is immediate and visceral, a natural reaction to the world around them. For me, it’s a distant memory, a concept I can understand intellectually but can’t seem to reach no matter how hard I try.

The worst part is knowing that I used to feel it, too. I remember moments of happiness—real, unfiltered, uncomplicated happiness. I remember laughing until my sides hurt, feeling warmth spread through my chest at someone’s kindness, looking forward to things with genuine excitement. Those memories feel like snapshots of another life, a life I’ve been exiled from without explanation.

When you can’t access positive emotions, everything feels muted, gray, and flat. The highs that others seem to experience are replaced by a perpetual neutrality, a numbness that sits heavy in your chest. Even things that should bring joy—a compliment, an achievement, a beautiful sunset—feel hollow, like echoes of something you can’t quite grasp.

And so, the envy grows. It’s not jealousy of their lives; it’s jealousy of their capacity to feel alive. I want to ask them: What’s it like to laugh without forcing it? To feel warmth without searching for it? To wake up and look forward to something without having to manufacture the motivation to care? But I don’t ask, because I already know the answer—they wouldn’t understand the question.

Happiness, for them, is so natural that it’s invisible, like air. For me, it’s like trying to breathe underwater. I see others swimming effortlessly, while I struggle just to stay afloat.

The envy doesn’t come from malice; it comes from longing. I don’t want to take their joy away—I just want to feel it, even for a moment, to remember what it’s like to be connected to something brighter and more hopeful.

But for now, I’m stuck on the outside, watching the light and wondering why it never quite reaches me. And maybe that’s the hardest part: knowing that it’s there, knowing that others have it, and wondering if you’ll ever find a way back to it again.