Relief—that’s what I felt when I was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder (BPD) in my early twenties. After almost a decade of struggling with my mental health, I finally had a name for it, an explanation, a lens through which to understand myself. Easier said than done, though, because I barely made sense to myself, let alone anyone else. I sat across from my therapist as she explained this unfamiliar disorder to me, confirming that other people felt the way I did. I wasn’t alone in this.

That relief didn’t last long. As I learned more about my shiny new label, I discovered that BPD isn’t something you “recover” from—it’s considered a lifelong disorder. It’s treatable, sure, but it doesn’t just go away like a cold or even like some other mental illnesses. It lurks in the background, waiting to resurface when you least expect it or when life throws something your way.

Some studies suggest BPD symptoms lessen in your fifties, often coinciding with menopause—but at the time of my diagnosis, that was decades away. The relief I’d felt evaporated, replaced by a deep sense of dread. Even though my depression and anxiety (which turned out to be symptoms of BPD) had always felt endless, I had held on to the idea that someday I might be free of them. I had been waiting for a magic fix—a pill, a therapy, something that would make me whole again. But now, I was staring down a life sentence.

I wasn’t a terrible person, as I had once feared, but I was wired differently. I had learned patterns and behaviours that might never fully disappear. And I had to accept that I wouldn’t ever just be happy. I would always be a few steps away, always working harder than others just to reach a baseline.

Not happy, but stable

These days, I’m far more stable. Thanks to a daily dose of Lexapro and years of therapy, I can function, hold down a job, and “pass." People are often surprised to hear about my diagnosis because most of my struggles happen internally. I know what’s expected of me, so I tick the right boxes. “Wow, you’d never know” is meant as a compliment, I suppose, and I take it as one. Like, Thanks for not realizing my brain chemistry is completely off-kilter.

But behind closed doors, with the people closest to me, the mask slips. And I’ve learned that a lot of people can’t handle it. On the outside, I have friendships, hobbies, and a steady job. I don’t let my eating disorder dictate my actions, only my thoughts. I resist my worst impulses and channel my energy into healthier coping mechanisms like writing, exercise, or creativity.

But on the inside? I still battle intrusive thoughts, an unstable sense of self, an overwhelming fear of abandonment, and all the other delightful hallmarks of BPD. Outwardly, I may be functioning, but inwardly, I’m constantly doing mental gymnastics just to keep up.

I’ve built my life in a way that makes it more manageable—maybe too much so, but that’s another story. I’ve fought hard for this stability, but I can’t quite call it happiness. I have happy moments, I have difficult ones, but mostly, I exist in a kind of neutrality. And honestly? That neutrality is a relief compared to the emotional whiplash that came before. I’d take this over the chaos any day.

Finding moments of happiness

I won’t ever just be happy. I’ll have good days and bad days. I’ll have moments of joy and moments of complete overwhelm. I’ll always have to work on myself. And honestly?I don’t know if there is such a thing as a simply happy life, as shit always comes. We lose people, we get sick, we get unlucky, we make mistakes, and all the rest. Divorce, grief, cancer, unemployment, the possibilities are endless. Just thinking about them ignites my anxiety, so I think you get the picture. Happiness isn’t a constant state—it’s something we find in fleeting moments.

There is no being happy; there’s choosing the happy moments where we can find them and accepting that to be enough. I recently wrote about how last year was the best of times and the worst of times, and perhaps every year will be on that scale, leaning slightly more to the left or right.

Instead of chasing an unattainable idea of happiness, I’ve started focusing on what’s right in front of me. I can choose fulfilment. I can surround myself with people who make the bad days easier. I can lean into my passions and create meaning in my life. It’s not the same as effortlessly being happy, but it’s something. And I think that’s enough.

Letting go of the pressure to achieve happiness has been freeing. I no longer feel like I’m failing for not reaching some impossible standard. I’ve stopped comparing my life to others. Instead, I focus on tipping the scales—on making sure that, at the end of the day, the good moments outweigh the bad, even if only by a little.