Why I No Longer Say I Want My Kids to Be Happy

The confessions of a father who means well

One night at party, I was talking to a woman about the book project I was working on. At the center of it, a daunting question: What does it take to be happy over the long haul? Seeking an answer to that elusive riddle, I’d gone around asking women and men of all ages to tell me their life stories. I’d poke and pry: Are you feeling good about your life so far? What’s been the most gratifying chapter? The least? What would make you truly happy going forward?

The woman at the party was game to play along. She recounted a number of ups and downs, filled me in on her hopes and disappointments. Then, without warning, she turned the tables and started grilling me. She wondered whether I’d learned anything from all this burrowing into other people’s life stories.

“Have conversations like this changed you in any way?” she asked.

“Absolutely,” I told her. “I used to say that all I want for my kids is that they grow up to be happy. Now I don’t say that anymore.”

I can only guess at what she made of that comment. She stared back. Okay, she glowered back. Then our hostess called us in to dinner and I never had a chance to explain. So in the hope that she’s reading this, and to get myself off the hook, here goes:

First, please understand that I’m not heartless. I love my kids. I adore my kids. I would do everything in my power to allay any suffering that comes their way, which is how it’s been right from the start. When my kids were little (they’re now 24 and 26), the wispiest cloud drifting across their bright, shining faces was enough to darken my day. Return from a business trip without presents for them? Unimaginable. There were occasions — I’m not proud of this — that I’d abruptly leave an out-of-town business meeting so I could race around town in search of the latest Batman action figure or American Girl accessory, frenetic detours that nearly caused me to miss a flight or two. A risk worth taking, however. Elevated blood pressure was a small price to pay for the heartbreak I’d experience were I to walk through the door empty-handed.

So you’ll just have to trust me on this: had you asked, up until recently, what I most fervently desired for those two kids, I’d have told you flat-out: I want them to be happy — unremittingly and bountifully happy now and forever. (Healthy, too, of course, but that goes without saying.)

Why, then, have I changed my tune?

Part of it goes back a long way. Maybe you can relate. Think back to when you were a teenager (not always pleasant, I know). If you were anything like me, there were probably times when you felt lost and confused — on a Friday night, say, alone in your room, your only company a paperback copy of The Catcher in the Rye or Lord of the Flies, or something else that prompted you to grapple with life’s heavy shit: Why was I born? What does it all mean? Perhaps you also asked yourself a question that went right to core of of your teenage soul: was it better to be like you, plumbing the meaning of existence alone in your room, or like them, the cool kids with their tooth-pasty smiles, sharp clothes, the kids who never had to grovel for a prom date? Kids like that never brooded in the rooms, or so it seemed to me. Why didn’t they? Because they didn’t overthink things. Life was simple. The point was to have a good time. It was easy to hate those kids.

For years, I chalked those evenings up to the fog of adolescent insecurity. But I understand now that I was groping blindly with an issue that has confounded philosophers as far back as the ancient Greeks:

Is it possible to live a happy life if one doesn’t achieve a meaningful life?

The issue continues to spark discussion in academic journals. Some philosophers argue that unless we figure out what’s deeply fulfilling to us, there’s little chance that we’ll wind up happy, certainly not for very long.

And that until we learn how to fight off life’s curveballs, and/or attach ourselves to something larger than ourselves, sooner or later we’ll wind up feeling dissatisfied, anxious, and vaguely or colossally bored with life — i.e., we won’t be happy. Other thinkers quibble a bit, acknowledging that having a calling and the right stuff to weather crises are important, but they’re merely two ingredients that make up the happiness pie. The full recipe also calls for a dollop or two of pleasure, a dose of absorbing activity, and a dash of personal achievement and material reward now and then. Voilà, happiness a la mode!

But it wasn’t just this high-toned philosophizing that prompted me to change my tune about what I want for my kids. It also had to do with those conversations I was having, my poking and prying into other people’s life stories. The women and men who told me that they were truly happy were invariably happy for one or several of a small number of reasons:

They’d made it through adversity, mustering strength against what had seemed like long odds.

Or they’d found a way to be creative, professionally or in connection with a leisure-time passion.

Or they’d attached themselves to a cause, a calling of some sort— a commitment to their community, or to a church, school, or Planet Earth.

Or they were deeply devoted to another human being.

Or they were doing something — mentoring, nurturing, guiding, teaching — which would make a positive difference in the future lives of others.

When I added it all up, those who said they were happy had discovered or achieved something that offered profound sense of meaningfulness.

So — what do I want for my kids, and would I have said to that woman at the party?

I want them to lead meaningful lives.

And how might they accomplish that?

By reaching beyond themselves to something larger — “self-transcendence,” as Viktor Frankl called it in his classic work, Man’s Search for Meaning. Happiness, Frankl said, isn’t to be thought of as an end. Happiness is a by-product. It derives from doing meaningful things and engaging in meaningful relationships. And while the determined pursuit of a meaningful life won’t guarantee my kids a lifetime of sunny happiness, it’s the surest way to kick open the door.

But if you know of another way, I’m all ears.

The Point Is: Making Sense of Birth, Death, and Everything in Between, has just been published.