I feel a tinge of embarrassment in writing this post.
If it weren’t for my eight-year-old niece, JJ, I would absolutely not have watched DreamWorks’ recent movie, Trolls. And, if it weren’t for the pure joy of our impromptu dance party during the long, musical credits and in the car ride home, I probably wouldn’t have volunteered to anyone that I’ve seen it.
I don’t know if I’ve ever said this about a kid, but it seemed like the cheerful abandon of our date was cathartic for JJ. It definitely was for me. I hadn’t expected that, and I didn’t plan to walk away with a “moral to the story”—even though all kids’ flicks are didactic.
The impression proved more indelible because of my recent, vulnerable conversations with good friends in our Tuesday night book club. Most of our circle is comprised of dudes inside or just outside of the 35-45 window. This life stage is famous for restlessness, discontent, and even midlife crises. Over the past six months, we’ve had some intimate conversations about our journeys away from our old metrics for success and fulfillment—some of the same lessons I got from a second-tier kids movie.
Maybe Jonathan Aibel and Glenn Berger wrote the Trolls script for the secondary audience of dads (and uncles) like me and my buddies. Maybe for you, too?
Happiness isn’t a zero-sum game.
Without giving away the plot of the movie, the villains think their only path to happiness comes at the expense of others. They don’t have a context where joy is serendipitous. They don’t know how to search inside themselves to find their passions, to learn what brings them fulfillment.
Do we?
The American Dream® can be a thief of joy, when it originates from comparison and competition. Traditionally, keeping up with the Joneses used measurements like where you live, what you drive, and where you vacationed. With social media, you can now compete not only on that stuff, but also on how you document it. And you can go head-to-head with everybody online—not just your neighbors, close friends, and family.
As Tyler Durden said in Fight Club, “We buy things we don’t need to impress people we don’t like.” (Dave Ramsey later added “with money we don’t have.”)
You define your happiness.
Throughout the story, it’s clear that the villains don’t even know what happiness is. They let someone else tell them what it is. They let someone with an agenda convince them the goodness they are feeling is not delight or even satisfaction.
We’re often no different.
As someone who works in advertising, I can tell you that’s my job: to make you want something you don’t have (and often don’t need)—to write headlines that make you feel like something’s missing. Beyond advertising and even a pervasive cultural media, though, we often rely on arbitrary benchmarks to measure our happiness. We regularly look around to see what—we assume—makes others happy and then adopt their goals.
In her bestselling book, The Happiness Project, Gretchen Ruben asserts that you can control what you do, but you can’t control what you like. While it’s sometimes good to explore others’ passions to see if they also flip your switch, you’ll only be fulfilled by what makes your soul come alive.
Happiness is an inside-out job.
As the movie progresses, cold hearts are warmed as people serve others. Selfless generosity gradually infiltrates not only the skeptics but also the enemies. That catalyst springs from a content and self-assured heart. Those who take care of their own joy eventually deliver it to others.
That’s no accident.
Serving others brings contagious happiness. Life was designed not only to need other people but also to help other people. Our most fulfilling days will almost always be the ones where we contributed to the wellbeing of others.
You can also inspire others with the humble but authentic sharing of what excites and fulfills your soul. Even people who don’t share your passions can be buoyed by your joy. Even if what gets you excited is a gaggle of troll dolls lip-syncing to Anna Kendrick and Justin Timberlake.
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Title image from the Trolls promotional website.
