The Child in Us: A Collection of Stories about Happiness

By Elizabeth Lucy Ivanecky

Two of the most grievous human conditions are loneliness and fear. They are siblings in our emotional world, which could lead to anxiety and depression for as many as forty million adults in America alone.

Each generation tends to face their

• Language: English
• Publisher: New Degree Press
• Release date: Dec 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781636761046

Book preview

NOTE FROM

THE AUTHOR

Dear Readers,

What does happiness mean to you?

This is the central question I want you to ask yourself as you read the stories I share in my book. It was the question I asked myself only a few weeks before I started working on this project. After graduating from university and entering the job market, I was constantly at war with myself worrying over an uncertain future yet failing to look at all the possibilities to remember, recognize, and create moments of happiness. I believe we often fail to see the big picture: being happy isn’t so much about a big moment, but more about the creation of many smaller moments along our way. It’s a constantly evolving journey that changes with our lives.

My happiness journey started with my family and my love of stories.

When I was a little girl, beneath the light of glow-in-the-dark stars in our den of blankets and pillows, my dad would scoop my brothers Tomas and Nick and me up in his big arms and walk our imaginations through his folktales of enchanted, ash grey castles. He took us to forests where beautiful, floral white deer grazed in pristine meadows. He introduced us to little periwinkle goblins in search of red-and-white spotted mushrooms to fuel their flying ships. Those were the days I fell in love with stories and the worlds of the imagination. I remember one night I tugged on my dad’s arm, pleading with him for just one more story.

He laughed softly, the lines at the corner of his eyes were only emerging then, as he carried me to bed and said, Aren’t you tired of my stories, Miss Piggie? and he made his signature, irresistible pig snort which never failed to make me giggle.

Doing my best to compose myself after a fit of laughter, I replied very seriously, No, Daddy, I love your stories, and threw my little arms around his neck. He held me tight, and when he pulled away, smiling with his kind eyes, he told me something I’ll always remember.

One day, my girl, you’ll create your own stories, and he planted a kiss on my rosy cheek. 

The tenderness of his words and warmth of his heart made my thrilled spirit soar with ideas of strange but wonderful places. As he tucked me into bed, I imagined the worlds I could create. I kicked my happy feet with glee because I loved the realms of fantasy and the stories borne out of them. The jubilant sound of crickets nursed me to sleep. In my heart of hearts, I knew I wanted to give the world the gift of joy my dad gave me through story. 

Beyond the stories and storytellers I grew up with, some of my most cherished memories of childhood were spent at home with my family. While I got excitement from the roller coasters at Canada’s Wonderland or trips to Northern Ontario with my family, the simplest moments were often the most memorable. Helping my mom make sandwiches for a big event. Laughing with my dad at the dinner table over the nickname of the month he had for me. Playing video games with my brothers until the break of dawn. In these everyday moments, I felt special, loved, and happy. 

Yet, it was different growing up without my extended family. When I was old enough to understand there were only five of us in Canada, my parents told us their immigration story. In the universal hope and plight of all immigrants, my parents emigrated from Eastern Europe to give my brothers and me a better life than the one they left behind in the home country. At first, it bothered me I didn’t have the opportunity to build a deeper bond with my relatives. Yet, I quickly learned to be grateful for my family in Canada. 

My parents opened a restaurant called Renaissance Dining and Lounge when I was five years old. Nick and I would stop by after school for dinner and eat before the wave of guests came after work to enjoy a nice meal. We waited at the bar in one of the highchairs to greet my dad and Tomas, who could be found drying damp beer and wine glasses that came out hot from the dishwasher. They looked dapper in their burgundy shirts with our restaurant logo on their breast pockets and their black dress pants with black shiny dress shoes. People often mistook them as brothers instead of father and son because of their physical likeness.

My mom would emerge from the glowing yellow light of the kitchen in her chef’s uniform. She wore houndstooth-patterned pants with a white double-breasted jacket, and a chef’s hat which reminded me of a cornucopia because of the vibrant images of bananas, strawberries, grapes, and kiwis. She would join my dad for a small glass of Coca-Cola, which happened to be a favorite drink for everyone in my family. I’d catch them steal a glance or two and watch as my dad’s smile turned into a laugh as sweet as honey as he put his arm around my mom. She leaned into his embrace and shot a quizzical look his way before matching his laugh with one of her own. It seemed as though they were in on a secret neither my brothers nor I knew. For months, I speculated what their secret could have been. Yet, I see it clearly now: I was witnessing my parents living out their own dream, which was serving food to the community and working with the person they love. Even then, I already had so much pride in seeing them share their passion with the community.

They extended this warm-heartedness beyond themselves. I remember my dad offered a worried, twenty-year-old single father a part-time job as a dishwasher. His ex-girlfriend, the mother, had started using drugs. The young father was happy to be able to support himself and his son. Meanwhile, an older gentleman would often stop by after work for a beer and chat with my parents. He would tell them stories of his military service during World War II, passing on lessons he learned in his own life to my folks who listened to him and appreciated the advice he offered. When I opened my eyes and saw my parents’ character, I realized they treated guests at their restaurant as family. Everything about love, kindness, generosity, and compassion, I learned from my parents first.

From this understanding, I realized even though my immediate family was small in Canada, we had an incredible opportunity to treat community members as our aunts, uncles, grandparents, and cousins—essentially as family.

As if to confirm this, I spoke with one of the grandmothers. I said to her with a strained smile, There are only five of us in Canada. Gently caressing my shoulder, she sensed my heavy heart. 

She said, As long as there’s love there, that’s enough. It shifted my perspective entirely. I felt a release of the heavy weight I had carried with me for a while. We had each other. It is more than enough to love and be loved by a few.

Feeling the strength of being loved and the bravery of loving others, I followed my heart, which has taken me on some extraordinary adventures. In my last year of high school, I was very intentional about my educational pathway. I picked McMaster University so I could spend another four years living at home in Hamilton, the city I was born and raised in. I applied for the humanities program so I could major in English. For me, I knew I wanted to pursue a degree that would give me confidence as a writer.

My choice was not met without some misunderstanding among peers. When people asked me about my major, it would lead to the follow-up question: Would you like to become a teacher, then? I have great respect for the teaching profession after having been a swim instructor for four years, but teaching was not where my heart was—at least not in the traditional classroom.

If I were to teach, it would be through my writing. 

Those conversations hit some of my harbored doubts about the niche creative writing profession. A part of me feared going all in on my writing. After all, what if it didn’t work out? When I finished my bachelor’s of arts honors degree in English and history, I sought a bachelor’s of arts degree in French studies thinking perhaps the additional language would open the door to translation. It turned out that year I was studying French I landed an unexpected writing internship with Study Breaks Magazine. My time with the magazine became one of my favorite experiences and shaped my writing voice irrevocably. When I finished my internship with Study Breaks, a few months later I started working on a project that transformed into this collection.

Sometimes, I need to remind myself to have a little faith. What may appear to be steps backward could in fact be a way to see the path ahead.

In the process of writing other people’s happiness journeys, I was able to reflect on my quest and understanding of happiness.

As you read these inspiring stories, I invite you to reflect on your own path in life. I hope you recognize your happiness. If you’re not there yet and still haven’t found your way, I hope you will be patient with yourself. Remember you are worthy of good things which have yet to come into your world. Rejoice in your wandering because our greatest creation is our life’s story, which is a work of art in itself. 

May you be happy in creating your journey.

Love always,

Elizabeth Lucy Ivanecky

Listen to the nagging voice telling you to do something good.

—ELIZABETH LUCY IVANECKY

INTRODUCTION:

REMEMBERING MY OWN HAPPINESS

Two of the most grievous human conditions are loneliness and fear. They are siblings in the emotional world. The former is rooted in a fear of being alone. The latter increasingly debilitates you when you are alone. These sister emotions visited me on the night I decided to write this book.

In 2018, after coming out of a wonderful writing internship with Study Breaks Magazine, I had been applying for countless writing opportunities on faceless job boards. I would send out my resume and portfolio to potential employers only to get rejected by generic, automated email messages. I wanted to continue writing because for as long as I could remember, stories and storytelling moved my spirit. I felt whole, both understood and understanding of others. I worried about finding another writing gig. Eventually, the frustration got the better of me and I decided to start applying for freelance translation roles in addition to the writing one to cast a wider net.

When I told Nick about my translation path, he was very confused. He felt I was giving up on my dream of being a writer way too soon. However, I looked at the debate through the lens of practicality—I needed to enter the workforce and start gaining experience. I trusted my gut to see where translation would lead me despite his caution against it. I set writing aside for a short while because I was a little doubtful it could get better than Study Breaks. Much to his dismay, I did land a translation gig, but the opportunity didn’t thrill me. It felt like I was back in school submitting assignments on a deadline.

After a long night, I laid my aching body on the living room couch and listened peacefully to Enigma’s The Child in Us. Nick introduced me to the song a few weeks before that night and I absolutely fell in love with it. The song reminded me of being a little girl again, not a worry in the world and eyes filled with dreams. I fantasized about the freedom, joy, and wonder I knew as a child. Would I ever feel that again as an adult? I fearfully wondered. My soul craved adventure. There were moments of it, but they always seemed fleeting.

Sitting up to drink some water, the first teardrops fell onto the carpet floor. The few became many, and eventually this awful, walrus-like gagging noise I made when I sob emerged from the depths of my weary soul. My future felt uncertain. I was scared and isolated.

To make matters worse, I remembered a Heath Ledger quote I read on Instagram a few days earlier: 

Everyone you meet always asks if you have a career, are married, or own a house, as if life was some kind of grocery list. But no one ever asks you if you are happy.

Great, I thought, I have none of those things. I felt ashamed of myself. I wondered when or if these things would happen for me, and I sobbed even harder. 

Sometime after midnight, when I cried so much only the gagging sounds remained, I had enough. I was done being the walrus. Silencing the slippery marine animal within me, I decided it was time to stop feeling so damn sorry for myself over things I couldn’t control.

Then I settled my mind on the final words of the famous actor’s quote: "No one ever asks if you are happy."

Inspired, I thought, You know what, I want to be the person who asks about people’s happiness. I knew I certainly wasn’t the only one who didn’t have my life figured out yet. Like most people my age, I was still a work in progress. Maybe I wasn’t the best person for the job, but I knew someone had to do this and I wanted it to be me.

Each generation tends to face their own obstacles to happiness. Like many others in my generation, the millennials, I tend to struggle with perception. I realize I have difficulty sometimes being kind to myself. It’s easy to fall into the trap of viewing myself through the lens of my peers. While I do my best not to, every now and again I judge myself harshly for not being as successful, fit, or beautiful as some people when I scroll absentmindedly through Instagram and Facebook posts. At times, I have felt uncomfortable with my freelance or contract gigs that lack job security, leaving me unable to support myself financially.

A part of me wondered if happiness was for others but not for me.

Yet, I realized I was forgetting far too easily the hands on our clocks move at different paces. I needed a reminder that anything worth doing in life requires patience, struggle, effort, and dedication—not just passion. I thought I was doing something wrong when I wasn’t successful right away, when really it’s because I was (and am) just starting out. Instead, I needed to have a little more patience and faith that things will work out as they should. I certainly didn’t need to be the most fit or beautiful in my network on social media. I needed to be the most appreciative of who I am as a person. Besides, it’s far more important to build a life you’re proud of rather than a compelling social media presence.

As for the older generations who are as eager as we are for life’s blessings, I have a message for you: wait with us. Be patient with us. Celebrate the little victories with us. Remind us there are still so many more adventures to be had in this world. 

While you are coming from a place of love, hope, and excitement, I ask you to adjust your expectations according to today’s world. Good things take time