Reading: 

"Away with the world’s opinion of you – it’s always unsettled and divided. Away with the pursuits that have occupied the whole of your life – death is going to deliver the verdict in your case. Yes, all your debates and learned conferences, your scholarly talk and collection of maxims from the teachings of philosophers, are in no way indicative of genuine spiritual strength. Bold words come even from the timidest. It’s only when you’re breathing your last that the way you’ve spent your time will become apparent."

– Seneca, Letters from a Stoic

About a year ago, my father and I were sitting in our family room at one in the morning, drinking half-cold cups of tea and talking about Roman philosophers. If you have ever had the pleasure of meeting Neal Reenan, this should not surprise you. The man is an intellectual. I don’t remember exactly what I was complaining about, if it was work, or friends, or the weather, but I remember my father getting up at some point during my tirade and returning with a tattered book. “Letters from a Stoic: Seneca.” Now, to most people it may be obvious that the best way of dealing with a stressed-out teenager is not to assign them a dense, philosophical treatise from almost two thousand years ago. But my father is not “most people.” And so, he handed me the book, with a simple explanation. “Fiona, I got to tell you, I am worried you are never going to be happy.” I sat there, in dumbfounded silence. He went on, “You are so wrapped up in yourself, in what you say, what you do, what other people think of you. When was the last time you did something just because it made you happy?” My mind began racing searching through the annals of my memory. But the only positive moments I recalled came in flashes of work, accomplishments, moments of external praise. When was the last time I made myself smile? I couldn’t remember.

It is a terrifying thing, to be told there is a chance you may never be happy. In our world, happiness is promised at every turn. If you open your computer and look up, “How to be Happy,” a number of helpful tips pop-up. Book a flight and you will be a new person. Start working out and you will love yourself. Drink more water. Make new friends. Eat healthier. Get a dog. I sifted through these quick-fixes searching for the path of least-resistance. I liked to travel, and I worked out, I was drinking water and I had good friends. I ate chicken and rice and some kind of green vegetable every day in Groton’s dining hall. And I had two, adorable Black Labs. So why wasn’t I happy? I had checked all the boxes. If my life were a lab experiment, all its variables were under control. Yet still, for some reason, I woke up every morning and I just didn’t feel good. I didn’t like the way I looked, or dressed, or spoke. I felt awkward and lonely, and not deserving of my accomplishments. I have been told by my science teachers here at Groton, that user error is not an appropriate reason for a lab experiment to have an unexpected result. Well, my apologies Ms. Marks, and Dr. Kelly, and Ms. Hawkins, but this one was entirely on me. For seventeen years, I had conflated satisfaction with happiness. I told myself that the feeling of gratification I received from those around me was all I needed to be happy and proud of myself. I allowed myself to feel joy only when my worth was handed to me on a report card or an invitation or in a compliment. I had given away pieces of myself to those around me, and asked them to hold on carefully, because I was too scared to be responsible for creating my identity. I was smart when teachers praised me in conferences and on report cards. I was fun to be around when others invited me to vacations and get-togethers. I was beautiful when I had a boy sitting next to me, telling me he thought so. But when it was just Fiona, alone in her room, I didn’t feel like anything.

After a year of reflection on my conversation with my father, and yes, after reading all two hundred and thirty-one pages of  “Letters From a Stoic,” I think I have learned what happiness really means in the context of my life. Happiness is not a result of certain living practices or habits, nor is it a gift given to you each day by those you value in your life. Happiness is, first and foremost, an internal endeavor. A commitment each day to appreciating and celebrating who you are. My mom is here today, in the chapel, and she is the happiest person I know. Each morning she wakes up and chooses to see the best in life and those around her, but more importantly she chooses to find comfort and importance in who she is. She doesn’t talk down on herself, or complain, or ask us to put her on a pedestal. She approaches every situation with compassion and strength. I can’t say I am quite on her level yet, but I have been working on taking pride in who I am when everybody has left the room. I am not going to stand up here and say that all it takes to find happiness is reading an old Roman guy’s book. In the past year, I had to rediscover who I was and what brought me joy. I learned that I love old time slow dance music: Etta James and Frank Sinatra. I learned that I like to bake things with chocolate in them and that I feel best when I’m dressed like Lorelai Gilmore or Blair Waldorf. I learned that sometimes I shouldn’t look in the mirror for too long, and that some mornings I need to blast Taylor Swift the moment I wake up in order to be ready for the day. And I’ve learned that there are some days where I will be happier than others, and that is okay. But as a person, as Fiona, I am happier than I was sitting in my living room, about a year ago from today. I still swell with pride when my teachers compliment me and blush when my boyfriend says I am pretty and get excited when a group of friends asks me to come with them to dinner. But those are no longer the only times I am happy to be Fiona, they are merely times when Fiona is extra happy.

And for those of you sitting in the chapel today who can’t remember the last time you felt unbridled joy and to those of you who can’t stand the person you are when you’re alone, I want you to know that it’s not always going to feel like this. Every day is another opportunity to redefine your relationship with yourself. I can’t promise that you will wake up tomorrow and feel at home in your skin. You may still crave words of affirmation and need perfect grades to feel whole. But I challenge you to give yourself a little grace. Hang up a picture of yourself as a child in the mirror. I dare you to say the things you say to yourself now to them. Spend an hour alone, not doing work, but just being by yourself. What sounds like fun? Make a new playlist, write poetry, call your grandmother. Watch that old movie you liked when you were a kid, fall down a conspiracy rabbit hole on the internet, go for a walk, pet a dog, try something new. There isn’t a perfect blueprint, and you may get some mixed results, but I have found my pursuit of real happiness to be more fulfilling than any accomplishment or accolade I have won. In the words of Seneca’s friend Hecato, who he quotes in Letters from a Stoic, “What progress have I made? I am beginning to be my own friend.”

And finally, to my dad, who couldn’t be here today because he had to give somebody else his dusty Roman wisdom, thank you for seeing a bit of yourself in me. Everything I am, I am because of you.