A story about always wanting more and finding happiness.

My husband likes stuff. He likes it a lot And he is always wanting more.

Every few years he develops a new crush on some THING. He then spends months devouring information and saving every penny to buy it. We’ve had designer clothes (long worn out), Porsches (sold when we moved to Africa), bikes (slumped forlornly in the shed) and now watches.

My husband regularly says to me, if you would just spend less on holidays then I could have more things.

I like things too. I like cheap sparkly rings and bright floaty dresses. I like buying a cute outfit for the kids or a new cushion for the sofa. And we are incredibly fortunate in being able to have all the things that we do. Especially living in a country where 30% of people live below the poverty line.

But despite my relative fortune, sometimes I worry that I don’t have enough things.

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We live in an affluent part of Kenya, where many people have two or more houses. We are surrounded by people that own flash cars, planes, safari lodges and horses. Back home my friends are buying their million-pound houses or adding on huge extensions.

I scroll through Facebook and I feel the bright hot burn of jealousy. An acid in my stomach that tells me I’m getting it all wrong. That I should have stayed at home, toed the line, made the sensible choices, and then I too would have all those things. My frown will turn upside down and a bitter feeling of impotence consumes me. I worry that we won’t have enough to live happily into old age. That we won’t be able to send our children to the university of their choice. That we turned left when we should have turned right.

Then I think back over the last 10 years of my life and realise that I made a choice all those years ago and it is one that I’m happy with. That I chose EXPERIENCES over THINGS.

While my experiences in Africa won’t keep me warm or feed me in my old age, neither will I wither away with a lifetime of regrets. I may not have made every decision the right decision but I went out there and grabbed life by the balls. Today I reckon that is worth every new car, every designer piece of clothing

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Because you see, I vividly remember having things. A life in London with the car, the flat in Fulham. Every Saturday spent buying clothes to wear to the best bars. I remember a life of looking at house prices and greedily working out what my peers earned or how much their house was worth. I remember when my life revolved around how much I earned, how I looked and more importantly how people perceived me.

I remember that I was so desperately unhappy that I had a long burn breakdown. I couldn’t manage meetings at work, I couldn’t manage the alcoholism that always lurks under the surface. I couldn’t maintain healthy relationships with friends. I remember waking up for work each morning to a cocktail of beta-blockers, antidepressants and Valium and falling asleep to Nyquil and red wine.

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I look around me and I see people in Kenya that don’t have many things at all. People that live on 200 dollars a month or less. People that live on the edge of hardship every day of their lives. People that fight just to feed & clothe their families. These people don’t have the hard, greedy look of people who are always wanting more. Instead, I see large groups of people laughing. I see children running with friends in the villages. I see men snoozing under the shades of palms and women sitting in groups weaving baskets, and I observe the calm and peace that pervades throughout. I’m not naïve enough to think that these families would choose a life of poverty over the riches of the west, but it makes you think that perhaps freedom from the burden of wanting things, is the greatest freedom of all.

The secret, I believe, is to be grateful. In the same morning that I am struck dumb with always wanting more, I will walk out into the street and feel ashamed for quantity of things that I own. For the wealth that I take for granted. As an expat in Kenya it is hard to come to terms with living in parallel with poverty. As a visitor to this country I try my best to be a generous employer and a kind person, but I also need to learn how to be grateful. To learn to look less at the fantasy lives on Facebook and more into the real lives of people around me.

Ten years ago, I turned left instead of right. I went to South Africa instead of Southall. And then Kenya instead of Kensington. I’m not saying this is the right decision for most. I know the lack of achieving western societies defined goals would frustrate many. But for me, it has been the right path.

Things are transient. They fade and die or need to be fixed. But no one can take my memories from me. Or the experiences my children have had growing up. No one can take away the person that living this life has made me.

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If you asked me, would I make my decisions again? I’d say yes.

I’d trade a life of new cars and red-heeled shoes for my kids naming every single animal on safari and knowing how to pitch a tent.

I’d trade Saturdays in the shops for the humbling moments that Kenya brings me every day.

I trade a life where I ate pills like sweets and cried every single time I drank, for the occasional pang of jealousy. And I do get jealous, but the trouble with money and THINGS is that there is always someone with more than you. And the more you chase it, the more bitter you become.

So, for me, the route to happiness is to find beauty in places and people and being grateful for every small thing that we have.

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