Are we happy by choice, or by chance?

What happens to us… and what we make of it

I often ask myself this question: are happy people happy because life is easier for them, or because they’ve developed a different way of moving through it? It’s tempting to believe everything depends on circumstances, work, health, money, relationships, the occasional stroke of luck.

Yet the more I observe, the more I notice something else: a quiet inner shift, almost invisible, that begins long before anything happens. A way of getting up in the morning and deciding, without any grand intention, not to let every small irritation set the tone for the day. Nothing is magically solved, but the perspective softens, and with it, the space the problems occupy.

Research in positive psychology shows that our level of well-being depends only partly on life circumstances. Part of it comes from temperament, another part from what we live through, but there is always a margin, that space where our gestures, habits, and ways of thinking eventually begin to matter.

It isn’t magical thinking; it’s a slow construction. Day after day, we lay down inner foundations that help us absorb life’s blows without dissolving. We learn to distinguish between what happens to us and who we become through it. And almost without noticing, this inner steadiness also changes the way we show up with others.

Happiness as something built, not something given

I don’t believe in a smooth, effortless kind of happiness. Life simply doesn’t unfold that way. But I do believe deeply in a kind of happiness that is built, layer by layer, out of very small and simple things.

A good night’s sleep when it’s possible.
A meal you actually take the time to taste.
A walk that brings a bit of movement back into the body when the mind feels crowded.
A conversation where you let yourself be genuinely touched.

These simple gestures shift something subtle inside us: they make us a little more available. And that availability creates a small movement in our relationships:

A face we dare to look at.
A smile we actually return.
A sentence we would have held back, and finally let ourselves say.

Hardships don’t disappear. We lose someone we love. We run into fatigue, anxiety, doubt, disappointment. But at some point, we can choose what those moments become: fractures that close us off, or steps, often painful, that push us to rethink the way we live.

And it’s often there, in those folds, that we discover timidity from another angle, not as a wall, but as a form of protection we can gently learn to work with. Not to become extroverted, but to allow ourselves small openings that, over time, become real connections.

This is why I see happiness not as a fixed state, but as a capacity: the ability to keep moving forward, even with our scars, and sometimes because of them. That capacity includes our relationships. We don’t become sociable by miracle; we become accessible because something inside us loosens.

Can we give ourselves tools to lay the foundations of happiness?

In all this inner work, the body and the senses have a huge role. We don’t change our state through willpower alone. We need an environment that helps us come down a few notches, that brings a bit of softness back. A scent can do exactly that — open a window inside when everything feels stuck.

Some essential oils bring warmth when we’re withdrawing (sweet orange, cardamom); others recentre and soothe (Bourbon geranium); others still offer a dry, quiet steadiness (amyris, Virginia cedar). They don’t create happiness, but they prepare the ground for it. They allow the inside to settle just enough for the outside to feel less intimidating.

In that spirit, I also had fun creating a bath salt built on the same kind of synergy: a base of mineral salts blended with citrus notes, soft spices, and quiet woods. Nothing spectacular, just a warm bath that becomes a quiet place where the body can loosen, where withdrawal softens a little, where closeness, with oneself and with others, can return. It’s not a treatment or a miracle solution, just a sensory gesture that helps the system feel safe. Discover it here >

And this is where something very simple begins to happen: the gentler we become with ourselves, the more room we have to be gentle with others. A word that lands more softly, a smile that comes back, an attention that feels a little more real. Nothing is forced, we simply leave the door slightly open. And that small but steady opening eventually becomes connection.

In the end, I think happiness is mostly nourished by these small things: an atmosphere that soothes, a few drops of warm oils on heavy evenings, and the quiet decision to stay a little present in the world, even on the days when we’d rather withdraw.