Some Things Can’t Be Taken Away

On the Kind of Happiness Life Can’t Steal

I’ve often noticed how easily we talk about lending.
Money? Fair enough.
Forms? Not anymore.

These days, it’s apps, alerts, and approvals. A few taps on a screen, a quick glance at your phone, and the money appears… sometimes before you’ve fully decided whether asking for it was a good idea. ATMs dispense it without conversation. Notifications politely inform you that everything is successful.

But happiness?

That still seems stubbornly offline.

When we need money, we know exactly where to go. There are apps that approve it instantly, machines that hand it over quietly, and messages that reassure us we’re covered. But when happiness runs low… when the balance quietly slips into overdraft… there’s no icon to tap. No machine to stand in front of. No alert to say help is on the way.

Which made me think:
What if happiness could be borrowed?

Not the commercial kind, of course. No interest rates linked to mood swings. No collateral in the form of forced smiles or public gratitude. Just a simple arrangement.

Loan me some happiness. I’ll return it. With interest.

Surely some people would agree. People who would slide a little joy across the table without paperwork or conditions. People who wouldn’t ask why you need it or how long you’ll take to repay. They’d say, “Here. Take some. You look like you could use it.”

And yet, we hesitate.

Because happiness feels fragile. Because life has a habit of stealing things.

Money can disappear.

Opportunities can vanish.

Peace can be unsettled by a single bad day, a bad decision, or a bad influence that arrives uninvited and overstays.

Some experiences don’t just affect happiness. They quietly pickpocket it when you’re not paying attention.

And that’s when it becomes clear:
Money can be stolen. Circumstances can steal joy. But not all happiness is vulnerable to theft.

We like to say love is abundant, yet we guard it like a scarce resource.

We ration affection.

We save kindness for the right moment, the right person, the right mood.

We hesitate, as though giving too much might leave us emotionally short.

Which is strange, because love doesn’t behave the way we expect it to.

Money reduces when spent.
Love misbehaves. It multiplies.

Give it away, and it returns larger, often disguised. As calm when anxiety was expected. As strength, when exhaustion should have won. As reassurance that arrives before fear has fully settled in.

And then there is one source where doubt never enters the conversation.

A mother’s love doesn’t sit behind locks or passwords.
It doesn’t wait for conditions to improve.
It doesn’t check whether the world has been fair before stepping in.

It gives before you know you need it.
It gives when happiness is under threat.
It gives quietly, in ways that don’t announce themselves as sacrifices.

In meals that appear.
In worries absorbed without comment.
In smiles offered at the precise moment yours falters.

Even when life manages to steal your happiness for a while, this love replaces it… patiently, steadily, without asking where it went or why.

That is its quiet defiance.

Bad experiences may bruise joy. Bad influences may shake it loose. Life may try repeatedly to take happiness away. But this love doesn’t sit where thieves can reach it.

It lives deeper.

So perhaps happiness can be borrowed.
Perhaps it has already been many times over.

And maybe the most remarkable thing is this:
Some people don’t worry about repayment at all. Their only interest lies in seeing you steady again. Seeing you smile. Not because life was generous, but because they were.

Some loans were never meant to be recovered.
They were meant to be carried forward.