My name is Maya Singh, and I cannot remember the last time I felt truly unhappy.
Not the fleeting sadness of a rainy day or the ache of missing someone far away—those still come, gentle and passing. I mean the deep, grinding unhappiness that once shadowed so many lives: the chronic anxiety of money, the exhaustion of overwork, the loneliness of disconnection, the quiet despair of unmet needs.
That kind of suffering has become the rare exception.
I was fifty-nine when the baseline shifted, in the calm unfolding of 2038.
I grew up in the old world—Delhi in the 1980s and 90s, then Toronto after my family immigrated. Well-being was a pursuit: therapy when you could afford it, vacations to “recharge,” self-care routines squeezed between obligations. Happiness was a peak to climb toward, mental health a battle to maintain.
Most people lived somewhere below neutral—stressed, tired, coping.
By 2038, the opposite had become true.
Well-being was the default. Suffering—real, persistent suffering—was the anomaly we noticed, tended, and prevented.
It didn’t happen by magic or mandate.
It happened because we finally removed the structural causes.
Material abundance—long secured—eliminated survival stress. No one worried about food, shelter, healthcare, education. Bodies were healthy by default: preventive medicine, personalized nutrition, movement woven into joyful play.
Time abundance removed hurry. No compulsory work, no commuting grind, no deadline dread. Days flowed at human pace.
Relational abundance healed isolation. Depth in bonds, breadth in community, empathy as cultural norm—loneliness became rare, like a forgotten word.
Inner abundance—cultivated through decades of turning inward—gave us tools to meet life’s inevitable pains without spiraling.
The baseline rose.
I felt it personally one ordinary morning.
I woke in my small home on the outskirts of Vancouver—sunlight on the cedar walls, the sound of waves from the inlet below. I made tea, sat on the deck, watched eagles circle. A quiet joy settled in, unearned and unremarkable.
I realized: this is normal now.
Not a special day. Just Tuesday.
Across the world, the same default held.
Children grew up without the background hum of adult stress. They knew tears from scraped knees or lost games, but not the inherited anxiety of “Will we be okay?” Their baseline was curiosity, play, secure attachment.
Elders aged without fear. Bodies supported by medicine that prevented decline, minds enriched by lifelong becoming, hearts held by webs of care. Death came gently, surrounded by love, not regret.
Mental health care shifted.
No longer crisis intervention for the many, but gentle companionship for the few. Therapists tended edge cases: profound grief, neurodivergence needing extra support, the rare soul who struggled despite everything.
Suffering still existed—loss, illness, heartbreak, the mystery of existence. But it was met with space, time, community, tools. It did not compound into chronic despair.
Even physical pain was minimized—not erased, but managed so well that it rarely defined a life.
I experienced it when my partner, Raj, passed in 2040.
The grief was immense—a wave that knocked me flat. But the baseline held. Friends stayed for weeks. Circles formed. I had time to feel everything fully. Agents handled logistics so I could simply be. The pain softened, not into forgetting, but into carrying forward.
I emerged deeper, not broken.
By the late 2030s, the Flourishing Baseline was simply how life felt.
We no longer spoke of “achieving” happiness. We spoke of returning to it when life temporarily pulled us away.
Indicators changed.
Old metrics—GDP, productivity—were relics. New ones tracked “deviation below baseline”: how rarely, how briefly, how mildly people dipped into suffering. The numbers were astonishingly low.
Art reflected it.
No more anthems of struggle. More celebrations of ordinary joy, explorations of subtle flourishing, meditations on what to do with a life where well-being is the starting point.
Children asked innocent questions: “Why do the old stories have so many sad people?”
We told them: “Because once, sadness was common. Now it’s a visitor we know how to host.”
I am seventy now.
My days are simple: mornings with tea and the sea, afternoons in the garden or with friends, evenings reading or walking. Occasional bursts of creation—a tapestry woven slowly, a story shared with grandchildren.
I feel well—body, mind, heart.
Not ecstatic every moment. Just… flourishing.
The baseline.
Suffering comes sometimes—a friend’s illness, a memory’s sting, the world’s remaining imperfections.
But it passes through, tended, without taking root.
We spent centuries making suffering the default, well-being the exception.
Then we reversed it.
Not by denying pain, but by removing its unnecessary amplifiers.
And in that reversal, we finally stepped into the lives we were always capable of:
Flourishing as the norm.
Well-being as home.
From which we wander sometimes,
But to which we always return.
The baseline is here.
Quiet.
Steady.
Ours.