“I Feel More Comfortable Living in My Agony"
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That One Lyric Said Everything I Couldn’t
“I feel more comfortable living in my agony.” – NF, Happy
That lyric didn’t just hit me—it wrecked me.
I remember the first time I heard it. I was driving, feeling a weird kind of nothingness, the kind you get used to when you’ve lived in survival mode too long. Then that line came through the speakers, and suddenly I didn’t feel numb anymore—I felt seen.
Because that one sentence explained years of my life. Years of pretending I was okay. Years of numbing, isolating, and quietly falling apart while wearing a smile. Years of pushing people away the moment they got too close, because the idea of being vulnerable scared me more than being alone.
It’s wild how a single lyric can put into words what trauma tries so hard to bury.
When You’ve Lived in Chaos, Calm Feels Unsafe
Happiness is supposed to feel good. It’s supposed to be something we all want. But when your nervous system has been wired for chaos—when pain is all you’ve known—calm feels threatening. Stillness feels like something bad is about to happen.
That’s how it was for me.
Every time things started going well, I didn’t feel relief—I felt dread.
Every time someone showed up for me, I questioned their motives.
Every time I felt a spark of joy, I braced myself for the crash.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want happiness. I just didn’t trust it.
Because for so long, the only constant in my life was pain. And when you’ve lived in fight-or-flight mode for years, peace doesn’t feel peaceful—it feels suspicious.
And in some twisted way, I found comfort in the familiar discomfort. At least with pain, I knew what to expect. At least with chaos, I felt in control.
I Sabotaged the Good to Protect Myself From Losing It
There’s something no one talks about when it comes to healing: sometimes we ruin the good things because we’re terrified they’ll disappear.
I’ve done it. Over and over.
If something felt too safe, too loving, too peaceful—I’d pull away.
I’d overthink it.
Create distance.
Start fights.
Shut down emotionally.
Because in my head, losing something good hurt way more than never having it at all.
And deep down, I believed I wasn’t worthy of the good.
I told myself I wasn’t lovable, that people would leave anyway, that happiness wasn’t made for people like me.
So I clung to the pain. Not because I wanted to—but because it felt like protection.
If I burned everything down first, at least it was on my terms.
At least I didn’t have to sit with the vulnerability of hoping it would last.
“Happy” Felt Like a Lie—Until I Realized It Was a Choice
For the longest time, I thought happiness was for other people. The ones who had normal childhoods. The ones who didn’t have trauma or mental health struggles. The ones who didn’t have to fight just to feel halfway okay.
And then one day, I realized I was wrong.
Happiness isn’t something that just shows up one day and stays.
It’s something you learn to create.
Something you have to choose, sometimes over and over, even when it feels foreign.
It took me years to understand that I wasn’t cursed. I was just conditioned. Conditioned to believe that pain was permanent and joy was temporary.
But healing meant challenging that narrative.
It meant believing—even if it felt unnatural—that I could be happy too.
And not just temporarily.
Not just in fleeting moments.
But in real, steady ways that I could build over time.
Healing Isn’t Just Crying—It’s Smiling Without Shame
A lot of people think healing is all about crying in therapy, digging up trauma, and having deep, life-changing breakthroughs. And yes, sometimes it is.
But other times, healing looks way more quiet.
Sometimes it’s sitting outside and realizing you feel… okay.
Sometimes it’s letting someone love you and not pushing them away.
Sometimes it’s catching yourself smiling and not immediately wondering if something bad is about to happen.
That kind of healing is subtle. But it’s powerful.
I’m still in that space—retraining my brain to see happiness not as a red flag, but as a green light.
Still catching myself when I start to retreat.
Still reminding myself that I deserve to feel good, even if it’s unfamiliar.
I’m learning to stop apologizing for the days when I’m actually okay.
Because for someone who’s spent a lifetime bracing for impact, peace is a huge accomplishment.
If You Feel More Comfortable in the Dark—You’re Not Alone
This is the part I want you to really hear:
If happiness feels hard to hold—there is nothing wrong with you.
If you’ve ever thought, “I feel more comfortable living in my agony,” it doesn’t make you broken.
It means you’ve been through things no one should have to go through.
But it also means you’re strong.
You’ve survived every version of yourself—especially the ones who didn’t think they would make it.
And now?
You’re allowed to evolve into someone who lets the light in.
Even if it’s awkward at first.
Even if it scares the hell out of you.
Even if you’re still learning how.
You don’t have to live in the wreckage just beca
use it’s familiar.
You are allowed to be more than your trauma.
You are allowed to be okay.
You are allowed to be happy.
XO
Tyler