Happy AF: Simple strategies to get unstuck, bounce back, and live your best life

Copyright © 2023 Beth Romero

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

Published 2023

Printed in the United States of America

Print ISBN:  978-1-64742-589-0

E-ISBN: 978-1-64742-590-6

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023910020

For information, address:

She Writes Press

1569 Solano Ave #546

Berkeley, CA 94707

Interior design by Stacey Aaronson

She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

Company and/or product names that are trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks of third parties are the property of their respective owners and are used in this book for purposes of identification and information only under the Fair Use Doctrine.

Names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the privacy of certain individuals.

TO MIMI AND PAVIS

CONTENTS

Introduction: From Crappy to Happy and Everything in Between

ROADKILL AVALANCHE

CHOOSING FIRE

CAN YOU POINT ME TO THE HAPPINESS AISLE?

POSITIVELY PSYCHO TO POSITIVE PSYCHOLOGY

CALL ME GRETCHEN

QUITTER TWITTER

SELF-HELP VS. SELF-HOPE

ROAD TRIP, ANYONE?

Chapter 1: The Art of Letting Go, Bouncing Back, and Being

LET GO OR BE DRAGGED

ENTER THE GROWTH ZONE

BE A WEEBLE

LET’S GET WIRED

THE FRYING PAN OF STRESS

CALLING ALL SUPERHEROES

HAPPINESS CHECK

Chapter 2: Change Your Thoughts, Change Your Life

THE HORSEMEN OF THE HAPPINESS APOCALYPSE

THE BEST DEFENSE IS A GOOD OFFENSE

RETRAIN THE BRAIN

GO WITH THE FLOW

BOUNCE, BABY, BOUNCE

HAPPINESS CHECK

Chapter 3: The Game-Changing Trifecta—Gratitude, Faith, and Grace

BE A GRATITUDE BALLER

THANK U, NEXT

THE GRATITUDE GOODY BAG

EMBRACE YOUR UPPIE

IN GRACE, FREEDOM

HAPPINESS CHECK

Chapter 4: Your Why Is the Way—Goals, Vision, and Purpose

GET GOAL RICH

MAKE EVERY GOAL COUNT

VISION QUEST

A PICTURE REALLY IS WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS

A REASON FOR BEING

HAPPINESS CHECK

Chapter 5: Mind Over Matter and Choosing the Right Hard

SWIPE ON, SWIPE OFF

STAND IN THE GAP

EQ OVER IQ

GREAT EXPECTATIONS

STOICISM, OPTIMISM, AND WINNIE THE POOH

HAPPINESS CHECK

Chapter 6: All You Need Is Love

THE FAMILY WE CHOOSE

SOCIAL SUPPORT, NOT SOCIAL MEDIA

GROW YOUR GARDEN

REMOVE EMOTIONAL VAMPIRES FROM YOUR LIFE

BE YOUR OWN BFF

WHEN IN DOUBT, FOCUS OUT

LOVE WITH A SIDE OF FURBALLS

HAPPINESS CHECK

Chapter 7: Success on the Daily

LIFE AS A TREASURE CHEST

MR. SANDMAN, BRING ME A DREAM

RISE AND SHINE

Consume Wisely

LET’S GET PHYSICAL

DON’T SIT ON IT

KISS MY GRITS

SOLO SOBRIETY VS. SOLO CUPS OF WINE

HAPPINESS CHECK

DEPRESSION IS NOT A CHOICE

Chapter 8: Your Past Prepares You

THIS ISN’T A DRESS REHEARSAL

THE IN-BETWEEN

SOME WISHBONES DON’T BREAK

UNTIL NEXT TIME

Acknowledgments

NOTES

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Introduction

From Crappy to Happy and Everything in Between

WHEN I WAS FIVE YEARS OLD, MY MOTHER ALWAYS TOLD ME

THAT HAPPINESS WAS THE KEY TO LIFE.

WHEN I WENT TO SCHOOL,

THEY ASKED ME WHAT I WANTED TO BE WHEN I GREW UP.

I WROTE DOWN HAPPY.

THEY TOLD ME I DIDN’T UNDERSTAND THE ASSIGNMENT,

AND I TOLD THEM THEY DIDN’T UNDERSTAND LIFE.

—ATTRIBUTED TO JOHN LENNON

F*ck you, 2020. You seriously kicked my ass. Not just a passing beating, but a full-blown, take-you-out, can’t-get-back-up, dear-God-someone-please-throw-the-white-towel-in-the-ring knockdown. When the clock struck midnight on December 31, silent tears coursed down my cheeks in gratitude that you were finally over.

I’m aware that millions around the world felt the same way, as 2020 was a brutal moment of reckoning that spared few in its path. Although every story is unique, each shares a common thread of loss whether in productivity, experiences, financial security, employment, or loved ones. And that was the tip of the iceberg. Below the waterline was an endless depth of grief, uncertainty, and fear that buoyed its crippling effects well beyond the New Year.

So, there’s that.

I’ve experienced my fair share of personal and professional blessings, for which I’m grateful. But life can still throw a few ferocious curveballs that unexpectedly knock you on your ass and take your breath away, and 2020 was like a possessed pitching machine hurling fireballs that left many of us ducking for cover or staying down with our face in the dirt to avoid any more direct hits. Like literal roadkill.

Many people have experienced some sort of a roadkill moment at one time or another. Loss of a loved one. A breakup. A divorce. Loss of a job. Betrayal. Loneliness. Bullying. Assault. Loss of purpose. Addiction to alcohol, drugs, sex, pornography, gambling, food, etc. Loss of home. Bankruptcy. Sickness. Disease. The list could go on and on. Although the event may be different, the roadkill feeling in its aftermath is universal. Life just ran you over, and you’re struggling to get back up.

I try never to measure my losses against those of others; I know there are personal stories far worse than mine out there. As I tell my teenage daughters, run the race of life against only yourself. Plus, I find comparative suffering to be particularly toxic and minimizing. Thus, the woes herein are mine and mine alone, and 2020 was the perfect shitstorm in every aspect of my life that didn’t just knock the wind from my sails—it sank the entire ship. Rock bottom. Lowest of lows.

But that’s only part of my story. The best part of the story is what it took to get to the other side. It is said that rock bottom will teach you lessons that mountaintops never will. Rock bottom was my blessing. A defining moment, really. Rock bottom served as my springboard to grow, to learn, to thrive, to soar. Falling apart actually allowed everything to fall together in a new way—a better way. And those profound lessons serve as the inspiration and foundation for Happy AF.

This book is about my hike back up that mountain. Every strategy that I employed to catapult from rock bottom to loftier heights of happiness is outlined in these pages. And to be clear, these methods and means are backed by clinical data, not simply my humble opinion or arrogant proclamation (I have a lot of those, too, but that’s for another time—preferably over a bottle of wine).

Here’s the kicker: They’re simple strategies to be a better version of you, to be happier, to be awesome, even.

We all just want to be seen, to be understood, to know that we aren’t alone during our rock-bottom moment, whatever that may look like. I see you. I get you. You may feel like you’re falling apart. Let’s make sure you fall forward. Take this journey with me to get back to your mountaintop and find your happy.

ROADKILL AVALANCHE

Sometimes it’s hard to pinpoint exactly when and where the decline started. I think of mine as a slow decay that gained ferocious momentum during the pandemic of 2020, kind of like an avalanche; any given factor, in and of itself, might not be a big deal, but taken all together, the drifts can prove catastrophic. It’s an insidious process, and suddenly you’re in chaos when, in reality, there’s nothing sudden about it.

My slide downhill started in the two years prior to 2020. One catalyst after another joined forces to become this demented chorus harmonizing the demise of my happiness—the kind of ominous soundtrack you’d hear in a low-budget slasher movie or Sharknado.

Let’s start with a brutal romantic breakup in which I allowed my confidence to be fair game for a manipulative, cheating narcissist. I was emotional target practice for someone with unerring and deadly aim. For seven years, no less.

This man was my first significant relationship after my divorce, and he swept me off my feet. This was before I ever heard the term love bomb. (If you’ve never heard of that concept, do yourself a favor and google it. You will thank me later!) The first night I met him, he admitted that he cheated on his wife, which led to his divorce. I thought, How refreshing and vulnerable to own your mistakes and to have grown from them. I should have realized he was merely telegraphing his punches, as this pattern also continued for most of our relationship.

This shiny new relationship was a welcome respite from the abject loneliness masquerading as a marriage that I had experienced with my ex. I relocated from Arizona to California (where the new boyfriend lived) with the undaunted, romantic optimism of J.Lo in pursuit of my happily ever after.

When we moved to California, my girls were six and seven years old, and I did not take uprooting them lightly. In retrospect, this was part of the reason that I stayed in the relationship far past its expiration date. I could not accept that I had overturned my life and that of my babies for a sham—a lie. To make matters worse, I had consuming guilt over filing for divorce from my previous marriage and not sticking it out for the kids, so I was determined to be committed to the next relationship and make it work. Ride or die. And it was indeed a slow death—of my heart, trust, and confidence. From this relationship, I learned sex addiction was indeed a real thing and not simply the banal excuse of philandering celebrities. To add insult to injury, gaslighting often occurs hand in hand with the behavior, so not only is your body compromised, but your mind is as well. You start to doubt your own reality when faced with constant lies. That part was worse than the physical infidelity itself. After countless months of counseling and group therapy, the only thing that remained was my eroded confidence and blistered self esteem.

After finally ending that relationship—determined to start fresh after my seven years of hard time served—I purchased a new home, a haven in which to heal from the toxicity I’d just escaped. I was resolved to make California work, despite our lackluster origin story.

A week after I closed on the house, I lost my job. New management, a different direction, blah, blah, blah. My safe haven turned into a financial albatross. Single mom with two teenage daughters, no income, and a pricey mortgage with ridiculous California taxes? The Golden State had fully lost its shine, and my happily ever after seemed to be a lost cause.

Yet that was still child’s play compared to what was to come.

As I was trying to reinvent myself personally and professionally in the early months of 2020, a new threat appeared on the horizon—one that many of us never saw coming, never even thought possible in today’s day and age. As a country, we all became intimately and horrifyingly familiar with the term coronavirus—and in April of 2020, I lost my beloved father to the disease.

One could argue it was fortuitous that my dad even lived to the ripe age of eighty, as many do not get that privilege. (There’s that comparative suffering crap again.) I get the circle of life. Yes, I was a daddy’s girl and adored my father, but I realize no one lives forever, and Father Time is keeping tabs. What crushed me was the way he passed. He died in the initial, frenzied stages of the pandemic—when questions far outweighed any answers, when we all felt like we were actors in some far-fetched pandemic movie. Hospitalized twice with the virus, my dad went weeks and weeks without seeing a loved one before he passed.

Given that he had Alzheimer’s, I imagine this period was even more confusing and terrifying for him. I tortured myself with this thought, seemingly helpless to do anything about it. I would imagine him alone and frightened, not understanding why his family was not there. What was he thinking? Where is my wife? Why am I alone? Why is everyone wearing what appears to be hazmat suits? Why can’t I see anyone’s face? The thought of him feeling abandoned, scared, and confused broke me.

As I lived across the country from my East Coast family, the telephone was my lifeline for getting health updates, which were extremely difficult to come by given the triage scenario in hospitals. It was chaos and confusion. Finally, the doctors told us that he was being released given his promising recovery. Relieved and grateful, for the first time in weeks I turned off my ringer and slept that night. I foolishly forgot that the virus was a master at evasion and could take multiple paths to wreak its fatalistic destruction. I woke up to seven missed calls. Instead of being released from the hospital, hospice was on its way instead. It was an emotional whiplash for which I wasn’t prepared. That call took me to my knees, and I pretty much stayed there for several months.

I was old enough to know death is a part of life. I’d just never imagined it would unfold this way. My father alone. No one holding his hand.

During that time, my mother was in isolation at an assisted living facility in New Jersey. Whereas my father had difficulty with his cognitive faculties, my mother struggles in the physical realm. A three-time cancer survivor with multiple sclerosis, she requires a wheelchair but is mentally sharper than most people half her age. She was my dad’s rock, and he adored her. Prior to my father’s hospitalization, my parents had only been separated by a locked door disguised as a bookcase in the Alzheimer’s wing, through which she could freely come and go. Now, a virus provided the ultimate and permanent barrier to their togetherness.

As the pandemic was in full swing, all residents at her facility had to take their meals alone in their rooms and were not allowed to receive visitors. My mother had to endure the loss of and grief for her husband of fifty-nine years in total isolation. I will never forget—ever—watching my mother’s face on Zoom for my father’s funeral. The pain and solitude. Typically, the community helps the bereaved to heal, enveloping them in its sympathetic embrace and providing a buffer during the mourning process. Not this time. My mother was alone in her pain. Not one comforting hug. I couldn’t wrap my mind around that either. It felt like Stephen King himself had penned the awful surrealism of this moment.

My mother, MiMa, requires special living arrangements to accommodate her electric chariot. After my father passed, I’d fantasize about how I could break her out of assisted Alcatraz and bring her across the country to stay with me. Unfortunately, the distance, as well as the physical configuration of my house—namely, the stairs—made that an impossibility, for which I felt such incredible guilt. In fact, grief and guilt were my constant bedfellows during this time—essentially the shittiest slumber party you could imagine.

USE PAIN AS A STEPPING STONE, NOT A CAMP GROUND.

—ALAN COHEN

In retrospect, there’s no doubt that these tragedies were exacerbated by the pandemic’s isolating circumstances. I’d experienced loss, pain, and grief before, but I’d always managed to bounce back—often with the alacrity and impunity of a Teflon Don. This time, however, was different. Let’s be honest, simply living during the pandemic was and continues to be challenging at times. California embraced shutdowns and stay-at-home orders more readily than other areas. My children were schooling from home—not always with success, I might add. And given what happened to my father, I was tangoing a bit with an agoraphobic mindset. Even going to the grocery store seemed like throwing myself into an episode of Survivor during those early days.

You don’t realize how much you take for granted until it’s taken away. Simple joys like hugging, walking next to people, seeing people smile, eating out, and going to the movies, gym, church, library, or concerts were out the window. Even rites of passage were robbed of their glory, including graduations, weddings, birthdays, orientations, ceremonies, and holidays. Yes, we all did our best to improvise and compensate, but there was still a poignant nostalgia for what had been. I recall taking my daughter to her high school freshman orientation in August and lamenting her limited ability to socialize, meet new people, or even see people beyond their masks. Badass goddess that she is, she asserted, "It’s okay, Mom. Even with my mask, I’m really good at happy eyes."

That comment took my breath away, not only for its sweet optimism but for the harsh realization that I had indeed lost my happy eyes. There was nary a twinkle to be found.

So, yes, whereas I had triumphed over adversity before, this little constellation of challenges took me down—hard. That gradual decline had gained momentum with no guardrails in sight. I lost my security. I lost my solo sobriety. I lost my happiness. I essentially lost myself.

There were a few gains as well. I gained, for example, a staggering income tax debt and took to bed when given the news. Not kidding. Pulled the covers over my head and everything. I also gained twenty pounds thanks to perimenopause, lazy thyroid, the sedentary lifestyle inherent to the pandemic, and plain ole depression. Note to future self: baking isn’t the wisest pastime during safer-at-home orders. I gained a rather disturbing chemical dependency, after finding that even the most diligently prescribed MAO inhibitors couldn’t breach the firewall of my anxiety and depression.

I was approaching rock bottom—a fact that was further underscored the day I realized I was walking around the house with my head down. I mean literally, not figuratively. Walking. With. My. F*cking. Head. Down. In the privacy of my own home. By myself.

This realization was a rude awakening. I couldn’t believe I’d let my circumstances defeat me in the way that they had. I know, I know, it’s winning the war that matters most and not any one battle, but it was still shocking. This wasn’t how I typically lived my life. I prided myself on taking the road less traveled, burning the ships, and choosing fire in the face of adversity.

IF YOU’RE SEARCHING FOR THAT ONE PERSON WHO WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE, TAKE A LOOK IN THE MIRROR.

—UNKNOWN

One day, I looked in the mirror and asked aloud, Who are you? I didn’t even recognize her. I’m not just talking about the extra twenty pounds, lusterless eyes, or unkempt, wiry eyebrows. I’m talking deep down. Inside. Fire-in-the-belly stuff, not belly-be-hanging-over-the-waistband stuff. Where’d she go? I mean, come on. Nobody puts Baby in the corner! And yet, I’d managed to not just put her in the corner but shove her into forced isolation in a super scary, dark, and dingy basement. WTF.

No, really. WTF.

CHOOSING FIRE

I’ve always loved reading biographical stories of courage and bravery. Such great sources of inspiration, especially when in need of a motivational booyah. I’ve even used the phrase burn the ships as my can-do mantra when faced with obstacles—borrowed from Alexander the Great, undefeated in battle, considered one of the greatest conquerors of his time. His fabled strategy for winning one of his greatest battles was to do just that: burn down the ships. Literally. Upon reaching the impending battle’s shores, he ordered all their ships to be burnt down. Retreat and failure were simply not an option. He and his soldiers had to be 100 percent committed and fight like their lives depended on it, because they did. Talk about major cojones. I have long aspired to be like him.

Imagine if we took that scorched-earth, no-turning-back, your-life-depends-on-it approach to every obstacle we encountered