When the “Happy Life” Plan Falls Apart

I grew up in small-town Wisconsin in the ‘90s, with one foot in the analog world and the other just beginning to step into the digital age. Most of my early memories didn’t include the internet or social media — they were filled with basketball at the YMCA, playing yard games and sports outside, Boy Scouts, sledding in winter, and late-night console gaming with friends.

I had a great group of people around me — good friends, supportive family, plenty of wholesome things to do. Life felt full, fun, and grounded. I wasn’t wrestling with big existential questions back then. I didn’t lie awake at night wondering about meaning or purpose. Life had a rhythm, and I belonged in it.

And like many kids growing up in that era, I was handed a simple, well-meaning formula for happiness:

Get good grades → Go to college → Get a degree → Land a good job → Be successful → Be happy.

That sounded pretty good to me. And for a while, it worked.

The Personal Collapse

But that script only worked until it didn’t.

Everything started to unravel during a season I never saw coming. When my mom — who had always been my rock — was diagnosed with cancer, I didn’t know how to face it. Instead of dealing with the fear and grief directly, I buried it. I turned more deeply into partying and substance abuse — anything to numb the weight of reality. That spiral led to skipped classes, slipping grades, and eventually dropping out of college.

And in the middle of her own battle for health, my mom now had to take care of her 21-year-old son who was quietly falling apart.

I didn’t run to Jesus right away. I took the path the world offers when things fall apart: therapy, moving home to reset, cutting back on the more destructive habits. And to be clear, those things helped. They really did.

But something had already cracked inside. The certainty I once carried — about who I was, where I was going, and what it all meant — felt less secure. Even when things started to improve on the outside, there was still an ache I couldn’t name.

The script I had followed so confidently didn’t feel as solid anymore. And I didn’t yet know where to turn.

The Partial Healing — and the Lingering Ache

After dropping out, I eventually moved back home. I got some counseling, started working, and slowly began climbing out of the pit. My mom’s health improved — thanks be to God — and I went back to school. I even reconnected with the woman who would later become my wife.

From the outside, things were getting better. I graduated. I got a job. I was functioning again. By every worldly measure, I had “bounced back.”

But the ache didn’t go away. The anxiety still hummed beneath the surface. I still leaned on alcohol and tobacco more than I should’ve. I was trying to follow the “happy life” script — the one every teacher, counselor, and adult had handed me — but something was missing. Deep down, I knew it.

What I needed wasn’t another accomplishment. I needed healing. I needed identity. I needed something — Someone — solid enough to hold the weight of my life.

The Answer I Didn’t Expect — But Always Needed

The “script” I had followed was supposed to be enough. But it only treated symptoms. It didn’t reach the root. I had patched my life back together, but I still didn’t know who I was — or what any of it really meant.

Looking back, I can see the grace that was present even when I wasn’t seeking it. My mom never stopped praying. I still carried traces of my Catholic upbringing — truths I hadn’t yet made my own, but hadn’t entirely abandoned either. And my wife — even in the early years when neither of us was particularly intentional about our faith — carried a steady belief in God. She prayed. She remained loyal. We got married in the Catholic Church, entering into a covenant with God who is always faithful — even when we weren’t. Over time — slowly, gently — God began to break through.

Not with lightning bolts or big emotional moments. But with invitations. A conversation here. A homily there. A stirring in the silence that I couldn’t explain. Jesus wasn’t an idea anymore. He was a Person — one who saw me in the confusion, in the noise, in the numbness… and called me by name.

And suddenly, everything else shifted.

He wasn’t a nice addition to a stable life — He was the foundation I had lacked all along. The meaning I couldn’t find. The peace I couldn’t manufacture. The identity I didn’t know how to secure.

I had spent years trying to fix, escape, improve, or distract my way to wholeness.
What I needed was to be found.

For Anyone Still Searching

If you’re carrying that same ache — if you’re chasing meaning, identity, or peace and coming up short — I want you to know you’re not alone.

Maybe you’ve tried to numb it. Maybe you’ve tried to fix it. Maybe you’ve done everything “right” and still feel like something’s missing. I’ve been there.

Maybe you followed one of the many “scripts” for a full and happy life — the one sold by social media, influencers, or even well-meaning adults. Work hard. Be successful. Improve yourself. Find your passion. Curate the perfect life.

But if that script hasn’t delivered — if you’ve tried the strategies, the habits, the hacks, and still feel unfulfilled — maybe it’s time to give Jesus a shot.

Not as a last resort. But as the One you were made for all along.

He said, “I am the way, and the truth, and the life.”
Not a way. The way.

And sometimes, all it takes is a quiet moment and a simple prayer:

Jesus, I don’t have it all figured out. I’ve tried to find meaning on my own, and I’m tired. But You said, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” Here I am Lord. Save me.