Happiness Is a Problem – Embracing the Fucking Grind
Introduction
In my last post, we tackled not trying too hard and how to stop giving a fuck about the petty bullshit. Now, we’re diving into Chapter 2 of this no-nonsense series. Happiness? It’s a problem, not a prize, and we’re gonna unpack why. Grab that shitty station coffee, pray for a quiet moment, and let’s get into it with some humor and a few well-placed F-bombs.
Happiness Is a Problem
Picture this: 2,500 years ago, some rich-ass prince in Nepal’s got a dad with a wild plan. “I’ll make my kid’s life perfect, no pain, no problems, just gold and servants wiping his royal ass.” The king builds walls around the palace, spoils the kid with feasts and shiny toys, and keeps the real world, sickness, death, all that ugly shit, locked out tight. But here’s the twist: the prince turns into a whiny little shit, bored out of his mind despite the luxury. One night, he sneaks out, sees sick people coughing up lungs, old folks dying in the streets, and has a full-on existential meltdown. Blames his dad, runs away, and decides to live like a goddamn hobo, starving, begging, suffering on purpose like it’s a noble quest. Years go by, and he’s still miserable. Finally, he parks his ass under a tree for 49 days (yeah, I call bullshit on that too) and has some profound realizations.
That prince? The Buddha. His big revelation: pain’s inevitable, so stop fighting it like a damn idiot. We think happiness is a formula, nail that intubation in a moving rig, snag that overtime pay, maybe bang a hot nurse, but it’s a myth, a cruel fucking joke. Dissatisfaction’s wired into us, and thank fuck for that. It’s what keeps us sharp, pushing through the next call, adapting when the monitor fails. The rich suffer from their riches; the poor suffer from their poverty. We suffer from 24-hour shifts, ungrateful patients, and pagers that won’t shut up. It’s all the same game, just different flavors of shit sandwich.
The Misadventures of Disappointment Panda
Meet my imaginary EMS superhero: Disappointment Panda. He’s got a shitty eye mask that’s half falling off, a too-tight shirt with a giant “D” stretched over his fat panda belly, and a superpower that’ll make you wince. He’d roll up to your station, kick the door open, and drop truth bombs like, “Great save today? Cool, but it won’t stop your burnout tomorrow,” or “Patient called you a hack? Tough shit, grab a sandwich and move on.” He’s the spinach to our junk-food brains, makes us better by making us feel like crap first. It’s brutal, it’s sad, it’s uplifting, and it’s necessary, like a code that breaks your heart but teaches you something.
Here’s the truth: suffering’s useful as hell. Stubbing your toe sucks, but it teaches you not to kick the stretcher’s wheel. Emotional pain, losing a patient, getting screamed at by a family, teaches us too. Our brains don’t care if it’s physical or mental; a cheating spouse hurts like a code blue gone south. Pain’s a signal to act, not ignore. Coddling ourselves from it, like avoiding a bad call, disconnects us from the raw reality of our job. Problems never end, they just level up. Warren Buffett’s got money problems; we’ve got trauma calls at 4 a.m. Disappointment Panda, sipping a margarita in my head, told me, “Hope for good problems, not no problems.” Smart-ass bear’s got a point.
Happiness Comes from Solving Problems
Happiness isn’t a gift that lands in your lap, it’s action, pure and gritty. Solve a health issue with a gym membership, and boom, new problems: early alarms, sweating like a pig, stinking up the locker room. Fix date night with your partner to save your relationship, and now you’re wrestling logistics, awkward silences, and figuring out how to screw in a tub full of bubbles without breaking your neck. Problems don’t vanish; they just trade up for fancier versions. The trick? Love solving them. Relish that tricky IV in a bouncing rig, that chaotic handover with a snarling ER team. Avoid them or whine about them, and you’re miserable as a patient with a stuck suppository. Face them head-on, and you’re golden.
But we fuck it up two ways, and I’ve done both, so no judgment. First, denial: “No bad calls today, la-la-la!” You delude yourself, numbing with booze or binge-watching reruns. Second, victimhood: “It’s the system’s fault, the patient’s fault, the weather’s fault!” Blaming everyone feels good for a hot minute, like a shot of morphine, but it screws you long-term with insecurity and resentment. Self-help gurus peddle these highs, feel-good exercises that ignore the bleeding wound underneath. Nobody who’s actually happy stands in front of a mirror chanting it. Addictions form, booze, drama, whatever gets you through, and the longer you avoid, the worse it hurts when you finally face it. Confronting’s harder, but it’s the only way to break free.
Emotions Are Overrated
Emotions are just biology’s nudge to keep us alive, do this, don’t do that. Sad after losing a patient? It’s telling you to reflect, adjust. Happy after a slick save? Reward for a job well done. But they’re not the fucking boss. Feeling good doesn’t mean it’s right; feeling bad doesn’t mean it’s wrong. Question them like you’d question a patient’s bullshit story. Repress them, stuffing that grief after a pediatric code, and you’re a ticking bomb, ready to explode on your next shift. Overtrust them, and you’re a toddler shitting on the carpet, justifying every outburst with “I felt it.” Balance is key, use emotions as a guide, not a gospel.
The hedonic treadmill? Chasing happiness, new gear, better shifts, a quieter station, leaves you empty as a used syringe. Everything’s a trade-off: that dream job stresses you out with endless calls; that perfect partner fights with you over your late hours. Accept it, or you’re chasing a ghost. No permanent bliss exists, not in this job, not anywhere. It’s a bitter pill, but it’s freedom.
Choose Your Struggle
If I ask, “What do you want out of this gig?” and you say, “Happiness, a quiet shift, a great team,” that’s lazy as hell. Everyone wants that, easy calls, perfect saves, a pat on the back. A better question: what pain are you willing to take? The 24-hour shifts that leave you a zombie? The patient abuse that tests your soul? The paperwork that makes you want to set the station on fire? Most want the glory, being the hero who revives the old lady, but not the grind: 60-hour weeks, late-night commutes, dealing with admin’s arbitrary bullshit. Most want a solid relationship, but not the tough talks, the hurt feelings, the emotional rollercoaster after a bad day. They settle, then wonder “What if?” for years.
Happiness grows from chosen struggles, own them, or you’re stuck regretting. Want a fit body? Love the sweat and sore muscles. Want a tight crew? Deal with the egos and drama. Joy doesn’t sprout like daisies; it’s earned through the muck. Whether it’s anxiety, a dickhead boss, or a patient who spits in your face, the solution lies in accepting and tackling that pain, not dodging it or praying for salvation.
Closing
That’s the deal for now, you beautiful lifesavers. Happiness isn’t a finish line; it’s a fight, and we’re built for it. Save your fucks for the problems worth solving, your patients, your crew, your sanity. Next post, we’ll rip into why you’re not special and why that’s a fucking gift. Stay tough, keep your gloves on, and give a fuck about what matters. Catch you on the next call!
The Humbled Medic out.
Check out the book:
https://www.amazon.com/Subtle-Art-Not-Giving-Counterintuitive/dp/0062457713