I’m Finally Happy, and It’s Making Everyone Nervous

I’ve been waking up early.
Stretching. Journaling. Taking vitamins that aren’t gummies.
I wear clothes that match. I respond to texts within 48 hours.
I am, by most accounts, thriving.

And it’s completely ruining my reputation.

My group chat is suspicious.
They keep asking if I’m okay with the tone of someone spotting a cult recruiter in the Whole Foods parking lot.
One guy said I “smile too evenly now.”
Another texted, “You good bro? You look… moisturized.”

Apparently, being happy in public is off-brand for me.

Which is fair — I used to be a walking ad for “functional chaos.”
I ate cold ravioli straight from the can and called it “bulking.”
I stayed in relationships three months too long because the Spotify algorithm knew our vibe.
I thought boundaries were something other people set while I silently spiraled.

But now I do Pilates and drink lemon water and say “No” without adding “Sorry.”
And it’s causing panic.

To be clear: I still don’t know what I’m doing.
I’ve just learned how to frame it in a morning affirmation font.
I still get existential dread — I just walk it out in HOKAs with a green juice and a podcast about liver inflammation.

My glow-up isn’t a product of discipline.
It’s the result of me accidentally optimizing my life after running out of excuses.

Even my therapist asked if I was “faking this for control.”
Yes, Shannon. Obviously.

So yeah — I’m happy now.
Not well-adjusted, just… stable enough to scare people.

I’ve become the kind of man who sets reminders to call his mom and actually does.
The kind of guy who unsubscribes from newsletters on purpose.
The kind of guy who knows where his passport is right now.

And if that’s not suspicious, I don’t know what is.