The author, a writer with five decades in the trade, became confined to a wheelchair during Christmas week of 2024. In a personal essay, she explores the psychological concept of the Happiness Baseline—the theory that individuals generally return to a set level of contentment—and describes how she maintains hers through simple, deliberate joys. From pushing traffic-crossing buttons to wearing lipstick in public, she catalogues the everyday moments that sustain her.

A Wheelchair Since Christmas 2024 — and a Happiness Baseline That Won't Budge

The essay details the author's sudden transition to a wheelchair in the holiday week of 2024, a life-altering event that she frames through the lens of the Happiness Baseline. According to the piece, this baseline theory explains why some people bounce back from tragedy while others remain miserable despite good fortune. The author places herself firmly in the “bounce back” camp, citing her lifelong tendency to find the bright side—even in a traffic jam, where she once pointed out her favorite orange traffic light to her husband.

She describes her baseline as naturally high, a trait her husband compared to the character Brilliant Kid from the British sketch comedy The Fast Show, an enthusiastic teenager who found nearly everything “brilliant.” The author uses this comparison to illustrate that her resilience is not new, but a long-established part of her personality.

The 'Brilliant Kid' Trait: Finding Joy in Orange Traffic Lights and a Brexit Mug

The essay is rich with specific, eccentric pleasures that the author says elevate her daily mood. Among them: the smell of oranges, a freshly made bed, a new indwelling catheter, sending clown-face emojis to men who direct-message her on X, drinking strong black coffee from a Brexit mug, and enjoying a free limoncello after lunch. She also lists generosity, writing fan letters (she recently received a reply from novelist Lionel Shriver), and listening to Chet Baker sing “Look for the Silver Lining” in the morning.

These small rituals,she argues, actiively raise one's Happiness Baseline. The piece emphasizes that comparison is a thief of joy—a sentiment she attributes to Theodore Roosevelt—and encourages readers to focus on what they still have rather than what they've lost.

Why a Headless Seagull and Condom-Festooned Swims Don't Dampen Her Spirit

Even with the loss of her ability to walk, the author finds ways to reframe past disappointments. She recalls swimming in Brighton Beach before her wheelchair, but refuses to romanticize it:the water was filthy, and her last swim in summer 2024 involved a headless seagull and emerging “festooned with condoms, like a filthy Christmas tree.” Instead of mourning the loss of swimming, she focuses on the memory of walking back from the beach with her husband, talking about plays for the Brighton Fringe—something she says she can still do.

The essay includes a poignant admission that what she misses most is not exotic holidays but volunteering at the Mind shop, a role she held five mornings a week for ten years. She tried returning but found it altered; she chooses to preserve the happy memories rather than see them eroded.

Writing for 50 Years, a Fan Letter to Lionel Shriver, and the Mind Shop She Misses

The author's career is a central pillar of her identity. She notes that she has been writing professionally for 50 years and still takes pleasure in knowing she can do it well.. The essay also references a Carl Jung quote—“You are what you do, not what you say you'll do”—which she uses to caution against empty talk. The piece concludes with a call to cultivate resilience, gratitude, and purpose, warning that loneliness is as detrimental to health as smoking 15 cigarettes a day, according to the author's cited research.

Throughout, the author remains grounded in the specifics of her new life: the catheter, the wheelchair, the modified routines. But her voice is unfailingly cheerful, even when discussing her limitations. The source essay offers a vivid, personal case study in how the Happiness Baseline can be actively managed—through small, intentional acts of joy.