People spend a lot of time asking: what is happiness?

For some it’s money.

For others it’s power.

For many it’s the right car, the right watch, the newest phone, or the freedom to do whatever they want whenever they want.

Preferably on a yacht.

A very large one.

The kind where you need a crew, a captain, and possibly a small helicopter because clearly walking on land has become inconvenient.

But for me, happiness is disappointingly… simple.

It mostly revolves around family.

This morning, for example.

It’s spring. The sun is already shining in that optimistic way that makes you believe you might finally survive the winter mood Germany imposes on everyone for five months. The air is still a little cold, but the light has changed. Spring light is different — softer, kinder, like the world is slowly waking up again.

Normally our mornings run like a small family logistics company. I take the older daughter to her school, my husband takes the other one to hers. We split the routes, coordinate timing, and try to maintain the illusion that this is a perfectly organized system rather than mild daily chaos.

Divide and conquer.

Mostly just conquer the clock.

But this week is project week.

Which means both girls go to the same school. A rare cosmic alignment that simplifies our morning routine in a way that feels almost suspicious.

I finish my morning routine — a bit of exercise, shower, getting dressed — and soon we are all heading out together.

My husband is driving the car. The girls sit in the back talking about music. Serious music discussions. Bands, playlists, artists, songs that are apparently shaping the entire cultural landscape.

They talk with the confidence only teenagers possess — the kind that assumes history began roughly three years ago.

I listen quietly, occasionally nodding, pretending I know exactly who they’re talking about.

The sun is coming through the windshield. The streets are calm. No one is rushing, no one is arguing, and for a moment the morning feels… peaceful.

Which, in a house with teenagers, is statistically rare.

And suddenly I realize something.

This is it.

This small moment.

All four of us in the car, driving to school, listening to the girls debate music like highly opinionated cultural critics.

No yacht.

No luxury watch.

No impressive car that requires a manual longer than a Tolstoy novel.

Just sunlight, teenagers, and a quiet drive together.

And maybe that’s the strange thing about happiness.

It rarely arrives with fireworks.

Most of the time it sneaks in quietly, sits next to you for a few minutes, and disappears again before you even notice it was there.

Unless you pay attention.

And this morning, for a moment, I did.

This week, my newest hobby is driving on the highway.

Not fast driving — let’s be clear. With petrol prices these days, speed feels like a luxury lifestyle I haven’t subscribed to. So I’m cruising. Calmly. Economically. Spiritually aligned with the fuel gauge.

It’s morning. The sun is out in that confident, generous way that makes you forgive almost anything. Good music is blasting through the speakers — the kind that makes you nod dramatically at red lights as if you’re in a music video. I’m in a good mood, the kind where it feels like I swallowed the sun and now it’s radiating from the inside, warming my thoughts, my shoulders, even my patience.

And there I am, on the German highway, on my way to work, slower than usual, smiling for no urgent reason at all.

Somewhere between exits and playlists, a thought sneaks in.

Eleven years ago, I was probably doing the exact same thing in Romania. Sitting in a car. Going to work. Same person. Same dreams. Same general direction in life. 

But oh, what a difference those kilometers made.

Back then, it took me 45 minutes to drive 3 kilometers. Forty-five. For three. A daily exercise in endurance, frustration, and existential questioning. I didn’t commute — I survived it. Every traffic light felt personal. Every pothole a declaration of war. I arrived at work already tired, already annoyed, already wondering why adulthood came with so much traffic.

Now? It takes me 45 minutes to drive 40 kilometers.

Same time. Entirely different life.

And the biggest change isn’t the distance. It’s how I feel while doing it.

Because now, I actually enjoy commuting.

I know. Shocking.

It turns out that good infrastructure doesn’t just move cars — it moves moods, energy, entire days. Smooth roads give your thoughts space to wander instead of bounce. Clear rules reduce stress you didn’t even realize you were carrying. Predictability becomes a form of kindness.

I’m no longer fighting the road. I’m flowing with it.

I love that my commute gives me time to think, to listen to music, to feel grateful instead of defeated.

I don’t overthink it. I just enjoy the drive, the music, the calm.

And if this is what commuting feels like now, I’ll take it —
slowly, carefully, and very aware of petrol prices.