I want to own both—my happiness and my sorrow.

Why should my happiness be anyone’s generosity? Why must it depend on someone’s kindness, approval, or presence? Happiness, like sunlight, should be mine to seek, to feel, and to live. But often, it’s handed out like a reward—when I please, when I comply, when I’m “good enough.” And if I slip, if I say the wrong thing, if I feel too much—then suddenly, that light is withdrawn.

This world is strange. It celebrates smiles but hides from tears. We’re told to “cheer up,” “look at the bright side,” or worse—“don’t be so sensitive.” But what if I am sad? What if the weight of the day presses a little harder? What if the silence around me is louder than the words I long to hear?

I am not broken because I feel. I am not weak because I cry. Sadness is not a flaw—it’s a season, a pause, a quiet note in the music of being alive. It teaches me to notice, to care, to sit still with my truth.

I’m tired of waiting for someone to say, “You deserve to be happy.” As if it’s theirs to permit. As if my joy is a token to be earned through perfect behavior. And just as tiring is the idea that sadness needs justification. That unless I’m drowning in disaster, I have no right to feel low.

I want to own both—my happiness and my sorrow. I want to laugh without guilt, cry without shame. I want my emotions to be mine—not gifts given or moods judged.

So, no. My happiness should not be anyone’s generosity. And yes, I do have the right to feel sad. Just as the sky has the right to hold both sun and storm.

Let me be. Let me feel. Let me live all of it. That’s where my strength truly lies.