It started on a regular Tuesday, one of those deceptively calm mornings where the world outside my window seemed perfectly still. I was rushing out the door, balancing my coffee in one hand and my tote bag in the other. The train was delayed, of course, and as I stood on the crowded platform, I felt the familiar weight of my workday creeping in. Deadlines, meetings, the casual judgment from coworkers who seemed to have it all together—it was all waiting for me.
But that day was different. It wasn’t the train delay, the pile of emails, or the oddly critical remark from a colleague about my choice of lunch that changed everything. It was a question—one that came out of nowhere, asked by a stranger, but one that lingered with me far longer than I expected.
As I squeezed into the train and held onto the overhead rail, I noticed an older woman seated nearby. She had that serene air of someone who’d seen life’s chaos and made peace with it. She glanced at me—tired, slightly frazzled—and smiled warmly. “Are you happy?” she asked. I blinked. At first, I thought she was speaking to someone else, but her gaze remained fixed on me.
“Sorry?” I stammered, unsure of how to respond to this very personal question from a complete stranger. She didn’t elaborate, just smiled again and said, “Think about it.” Then she returned to her book as though nothing had happened.
I spent the rest of my commute turning that question over in my mind. Was I happy? Sure, I had a job that paid the bills, a decent apartment, and friends to lean on. But beneath the surface, I wasn’t sure I even knew what happiness felt like anymore. That question made me reflect on the silent stressors I’d grown accustomed to. At work, there were always those offhand comments from colleagues: “You’re eating that for lunch?” or “How do you have time to relax when you’re always working?” These remarks, meant to be casual, always felt like subtle digs, as though every choice I made was up for scrutiny. Outside of work, it wasn’t much better. Social media was a constant parade of polished perfection. Friends posting their yoga routines at sunrise, colleagues sharing snapshots of their “perfect” meal prep, or strangers flaunting their curated lives. I couldn’t help but compare myself to the idealized version of everyone else.
One evening, still haunted by the woman’s question, I sat down with my journal and started writing. What does happiness mean to me? Not to my colleagues, not to the influencers I follow, not to society—but to me. What would it look like if I let go of everyone else’s expectations? That’s when I stumbled upon a mental health tip that felt like a lifeline: focus on what nourishes you, not what impresses others.
It seems simple, almost too simple, but it was revolutionary for me. I started identifying the things I did purely because they made me happy. Cooking a comforting meal after work, even if it wasn’t Instagram-worthy. Taking a walk without tracking my steps. Reading a novel instead of a productivity book. These weren’t grand changes, but they were mine, and they felt right.
The first real test came during an office lunch. Someone commented on my food again—a harmless remark about how much rice I was eating. Normally, I’d have laughed it off or made an excuse. This time, I simply said, “I love rice. It reminds me of home.” The comment didn’t bother me, not because it wasn’t judgmental, but because I no longer felt the need to justify my choices. I realized then that the power others’ words had over me came from my own insecurities. The more I embraced my own preferences, the less those words could sting.
It wasn’t an overnight transformation. There were still days when the weight of expectations felt heavy. But each time I chose myself over someone else’s opinion, it got a little easier. I started making small promises to myself and keeping them—a quick walk after lunch, a digital detox every Sunday, saying no to plans I didn’t truly enjoy.
These tiny acts of self-care became a foundation for bigger changes. I found myself speaking up more in meetings, not because I felt the need to prove something, but because I valued my own perspective. I stopped apologizing for taking up space—in conversations, in rooms, in life. What surprised me most was how these internal changes began to ripple outward. As I grew more comfortable in my own skin, my interactions with others changed. People noticed, and some even followed suit. A colleague once told me, “I love how you’re just yourself. It’s refreshing.” That’s when I realized: authenticity is contagious.
By letting go of the need to please everyone, I’d unknowingly given others permission to do the same. The workplace felt less judgmental, not because everyone had changed, but because I had. I no longer fed into the cycle of silent comparison and subtle criticism. When I think back to that woman on the train, I often wonder if she realized the impact her simple question would have on me. It’s funny how a stranger’s words can set off a chain reaction that changes everything.
Lifestyle judgment is pervasive, but it doesn’t have to define you. The next time someone questions your choices, take a moment to pause and reflect. Are you making decisions for yourself or for the approval of others? Remember, the life you’re living is yours alone. Write your story in a way that feels authentic, fulfilling, and unapologetically you.