How to find happiness

We've had the formula for centuries

I’ll be honest: when I first saw Mark Manson’s book The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck prominently displayed in the bookstore, I rolled my eyes and walked right past it. The title struck me as pure gimmick—the kind of cheap provocation designed to grab attention rather than offer real wisdom. But then I came across this interview with Manson, and my opinion shifted. Here is a secular thinker, someone with no religious commitment, drawing on real life experience and insights of the ancient Greeks to arrive at truths deeply baked into Christian theology.

We in the modern West are obsessed with happiness. Have you noticed this? It’s right there in the American Declaration of Independence—the unalienable right to “Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” And yet, for all our comforts, conveniences, and technological marvels, we seem more anxious, discontented, and fragile than ever before. I can’t help but contrast this with memories of my university days as an impoverished physics student living on cheap hamburgers and sheer determination. Life was harder then, materially leaner, but somehow both lighter and richer in satisfaction. A century or more ago, when daily existence demanded far more physical toil and offered far fewer luxuries, people often carried a quieter contentment than we do today with our heated seats and endless streaming options.

The late conservative writer P.J. O’Rourke captured this paradox vividly in essays about his experiences in some of the world’s poorest countries. Time after time, he encountered people who, by Western standards, had every reason to be miserable—yet they laughed easily, shared generously, and seemed genuinely joyful. They weren’t chasing happiness as a goal. It simply emerged from the way they lived.

So what’s going on?

Manson offers a compelling framework drawn from the ancient Greeks. They spoke of two very different kinds of happiness. Hedonia (from which we get the word “hedonism”) refers to the pursuit of pleasure, comfort, and short-term satisfactions. In today’s terms, that’s dopamine hits from likes, sugary treats, impulse buys, or binge-watching. It feels good in the moment, but it’s fleeting, and usually leaves us feeling hollowed out afterward.

In contrast, eudaimonia describes a deeper, more enduring sense of human flourishing—a life of meaning, purpose, and virtue that feels worth living even when it’s difficult. This is the happiness that’s long-term, the kind that quietly assures you that at the end of your days you’ll say, “It was all worth it.”

Our culture has become brilliantly optimized for hedonia—every app, advertisement, and algorithm is engineered to deliver quick comforts and emotional highs. Yet the research—and our own depleted lives—show that chasing these highs often leaves us emptier. True, lasting satisfaction comes not as something we grasp directly, but as a byproduct of something far richer.

Manson drives this home with what he calls the Backwards Law (an idea he credits in part to Alan Watts): The more desperately you chase a positive experience, the more you create suffering for yourself. Conversely, the more willingly you accept and even embrace a negative experience, the more genuine positivity flows into your life.

Think about it. The harder you try to impress people, the more insecure and unimpressive you feel. The more you obsess over looking beautiful, the more flaws you notice in the mirror. The more you chase money, the poorer you feel no matter your bank account. The more you demand constant happiness, the more easily life upsets you. But when you stop fighting reality—when you accept that life includes hardship, rejection, and struggle—a surprising peace and resilience often follow.

This led Manson to a powerful question: Instead of asking, “What will make me happy?” what if we asked, “What pain am I willing to endure? What struggle do I secretly enjoy?”

For me, it’s the satisfying burn from lifting heavy weights. I love that kind of pain. Or the deep, almost meditative focus of scrubbing a filthy space until it gleams—like the time I helped my brother and sister in-law clean their newly rented house from top to bottom after the previous tenants left it in a shambles. It was disgusting work—but also oddly rewarding. These aren’t easy pleasures, but they connect me to something meaningful. They point toward eudaimonia.

Manson also sketches three broad stages of human development that help explain why so many of us feel stuck:

• The childhood phase is simple and impulsive: “I want the cookie. Do I get it?” Life is all about immediate gratification.

• The adolescent phase becomes transactional. Once we realize other people have their own desires and perspectives, life turns into performance and barter. We wear the right clothes, say the right things, curate the right image, all to win approval, status, or that next “cookie.” It’s exhausting, inauthentic, and incredibly fragile. As many of us can recall from our middle school days, one misstep and the whole house of cards can tumble.

• The adulthood phase is marked by acceptance and unconditional values. You discover what matters so deeply to you that you’re willing to be disliked for it. You stop performing for the world’s applause and start living according to convictions that transcend circumstances. This stage is anti-fragile—setbacks don’t destroy you; they refine and strengthen you.

Many of us remain functionally adolescent well into our adult years, especially in our hyper-transactional, social-media-driven culture that constantly flatters us and tells us we’re special, entitled, and deserving of easy outcomes. Manson calls out the two faces of narcissism that result: the grandiose (“I’m superior”) and the vulnerable (“I’m a unique victim who deserves special treatment”). Both lead to the same exhausting demand: the world must revolve around me.

This is where the Christian faith comes through with particular relevance—and where the data become fascinating. Multiple studies, including from Pew Research, consistently show that actively religious people—especially those who live out their Christian faith—report significantly higher levels of happiness and life satisfaction than the unaffiliated. In the United States, 36% of actively religious adults describe themselves as “very happy,” compared to just 25% of the unaffiliated. Similar patterns hold in many other countries, with faith correlating to greater resilience, lower rates of anxiety and depression, stronger communities, and a profound sense of purpose.

Why? Because Christianity frames the paradoxical nature of true happiness—it has always invited us into eudaimonia. It calls us to meaningful struggle, radical acceptance of reality under God’s sovereignty, and the steady cultivation of virtue.

The medieval Church discovered the full riches of Greek philosophy in the 12th and 13th centuries, and wholeheartedly embraced it.¹ Aristotle’s works flooded back into the Latin West, and Christian thinkers were enthralled. There was such excitement, such a giddy rush to incorporate his ideas, that it bordered on syncretism at times. But it was understandable, as the Greeks had given distinct voice to ideas that are deeply, sometimes subtly, embedded in Christian theology.

The high point came with Thomas Aquinas in the 13th century. In his monumental Summa Theologica, Aquinas masterfully wove Aristotle’s insights on virtue and human flourishing into Christian theology. He showed how habits like prudence, justice, fortitude (courage), and temperance weren’t just ancient Greek ideals, but practices we can and should lean into by God’s grace, in every season of life.

This mirrors the apostle Paul, who learned the secret of contentment whether in plenty or in want, because his hope and identity were anchored in Christ (Philippians 4:11-13). Jesus Himself warned that the world would hate His followers just as it hated Him first (John 15:18)—a liberating truth that frees us from the adolescent trap of constant performance.

The practical formula for happiness that emerges is this:

Meaningful struggle + willing acceptance = eudaimonia (deep, lasting satisfaction).

In my own life lately, this has moved from theory to daily reality. My cancer recently returned, bringing with it lifestyle restrictions I didn’t ask for, especially as a professional-level baker who loves creating (and eating) fabulous sweets. Far worse, this diagnosis forces me to confront uncertainty about how many years I have left on this earth.² But, as Corrie ten Boom observed, fighting that reality only robs today of its strength. Acceptance—yielding what I cannot control to a faithful God while taking responsibility for how I respond—brings a surprising sense of freedom.

So, how do you find happiness? I lied a little in the title of this piece, because you don’t find happiness—you let it find you. And you don’t have to face cancer to invite happiness in. Ask yourself: What am I willing to struggle for? What am I willing to be disliked for? When you find those things and root them in love for God and neighbor, happiness stops being the desperate goal and becomes a quiet companion along the way.

Western culture has made us fragile by chasing hedonia. It’s time to reclaim the ancient wisdom—both Greek and Christian—that has sustained faithful souls for centuries: Pursue virtue. Embrace meaningful struggle. Accept what you cannot change. Trust the God who redeems every hardship and works all things for good.

A life well-lived in Christ isn’t always easy. But it is deeply satisfying. And joy comes as a gift, often when we least expect it.

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1. There’s a reason the Greeks likewise embraced Christianity when they were exposed to it. They were ripe for a religion they could take seriously.

2. The tumor was removed, and I appear to be cancer-free at the moment. But given that this is the fourth time I’ve had cancer, and that it seems to return on a roughly seven-year cycle, and more aggressively each time, I’m feeling a bit tentative about the future.