Balancing Short-Term Pleasure with Long-Term Happiness

"Balancing short-term pleasure with long-term happiness." I wrote that sentence down as a note to myself while reading this week, and then I sat there staring at it for a lot longer than I expected to.

Because here's the thing that started nagging at me almost immediately: doesn't the very idea of pursuing happiness quietly assume that we're not happy yet? If long-term happiness is something out there, something we're working towards, aren't we implicitly telling ourselves that today doesn't quite count — that we're still not there, still somehow deficient, still waiting?

But then I thought about it differently. What if long-term happiness isn't a distant destination at all, but simply the sum of days like today?

Take yesterday, for example. I finished a work task that had been genuinely difficult. I spent the evening with people I love. I slept reasonably well, ate reasonably well, moved my body a little. Was that a good day? Yes, without much hesitation. Was I happy? Probably — though I couldn't measure it precisely, and I'm not sure I need to. But if I string enough days like that together, over months, over years, I'd say the honest word for the result is: satisfied. And in the bigger picture, satisfied looks an awful lot like happy.

So maybe the pursuit isn't about chasing some future emotional state. Maybe it's about protecting the conditions that make good days possible, and simply letting them accumulate.

Which raises the real question: what actually leads to that feeling?

A few things come to mind immediately.

Autonomy — the simple freedom to choose. Not necessarily big choices, but the ordinary ability to decide how you spend your morning, which task you tackle first, how you want to do your work.

Flexibility — because not everything can be planned. Emergencies happen, at work and at home, and a life that has no room to bend around them is a life that will eventually break a little under the pressure.

Accepting failure — and I don't mean the dramatic kind. I mean the small, unglamorous failures: the email you forgot to send, the bill you paid three days late. Even the most capable people fail at small things constantly. Making peace with that seems to matter more than most of us admit.

People — we spend most of our adult lives surrounded by colleagues, and this, I suspect, deserves its own post entirely. It's too big a topic to do justice to here, so I'll leave it — deliberately — for another Sunday.

Silent work — this one is very personal for me. I've noticed that one of the things that helps me most isn't more time, but protected time: closing the door, switching off the phone, focusing on a single task for a set stretch of minutes. Interruptions don't just cost me a few seconds — they knock me out of focus entirely, and getting back in can take far longer than the interruption itself.

Whose the boss? — and here's a question I keep circling back to. One of the best decisions I ever made was starting my own school. And yet, if I'm honest, there are days when I'm simply tired of carrying every decision alone. So I don't think the answer is quite as simple as "be your own boss." I believe an employee who is genuinely empowered, given autonomy and flexibility, can feel every bit as much ownership over their work as someone who owns the company outright. That feeling of participating in building something — rather than merely executing instructions — might matter more than the job title itself. But that, too, feels like a topic for its own Sunday.

For today, I'll leave you with the smaller, more immediate question: think about yesterday, or the day before. Was it a good day? What, specifically, made it one?

I'd love to read your thoughts in the comments — and if any of today's threads (people at work, or the "whose the boss" question) resonate with you, tell me. It might just decide what I write about next.

This is part of my Book Espresso, published every Sunday morning — a short reflection inspired by whatever I'm reading, for anyone who wants to start the week with something to think about.

Are You Happy?

 "Happiness is the meaning and the purpose of life, the whole aim and end of human existence." Aristotle wrote that a very long time ago, and yet I keep coming back to it — probably because it sounds so simple, and turns out to be anything but.

I've been sitting with this quote all week, mostly because of something small that happened on Tuesday. My daughter was in the garden with her cousin and his dog, and for a very long time nobody needed anything from us, the adults. It was a genuine pleasure to watch three creatures chase each other around in circles, absolutely delighted with the world and with each other. And I remember thinking: this is it, isn't it? This is the thing.

But here's where it gets interesting — and where I had to stop and think harder than I expected to.

Aristotle didn't actually mean happiness the way we usually use the word today. He used a Greek term, eudaimonia, which doesn't translate neatly into "happiness" at all. It's closer to something like flourishing, or living well. And he drew a sharp line between this and what he called hedonia — pleasure. A nice meal, a comfortable afternoon, a moment of fun: that's hedonia, and it's lovely, but Aristotle thought it was too fleeting, too shallow, to be the real aim of a human life.

Eudaimonia, on the other hand, comes from living in a way that reflects your values, your character, who you actually are — not just from a single good feeling, but from the whole shape of how you're living. A person could be going through something difficult and still be eudaimon, if they were meeting it with integrity, courage, love.

So which one was I feeling in the garden, watching my daughter laugh?

Honestly — both, I think. There was pure, uncomplicated pleasure in it, the hedonic kind: sunshine, laughter, a dog too excited for his own good. But underneath that, there was something sturdier too. That moment existed because of years of small choices — the kind of home we've tried to build, the relationships we've protected, the time I've fought to carve out between lessons and Book Espresso and everything else. That's the eudaimonic layer. It wasn't just a nice five minutes. It was a small piece of evidence that the life I'm building is, in fact, going somewhere good.

I think this is why Aristotle's quote unsettles people a little, if they sit with it. It doesn't ask "did you enjoy yourself this week?" It asks something much bigger: is your life, as a whole, oriented toward something worth living for?

That's a big question for a Sunday morning. So let's make it smaller.

Are you happy?

Not "generally, in the abstract" — but this week. Take a moment and think back over the last seven days, since we're back here again exactly one week later. Try to find three to five moments — they can be tiny — that made you smile without you even deciding to. A cup of coffee that was exactly right. A message from an old friend. Your child, or someone else's child, laughing at something ridiculous. A sentence in a book that made you feel understood.

Write them down if you can. Not to prove anything, but because Aristotle might be onto something: perhaps happiness isn't a destination we arrive at, but something we notice, piece by piece, in the ordinary texture of an ordinary week — if we're paying attention.

I'd love to know — what were your three to five moments this week? Tell me in the comments, I read every one.

Why do you do it? Part 2: Job Crafting

 

Job Crafting: Why I Never Do My Job the Same Way Twice

I promised myself I wouldn't turn every blog post into a Meik Wiking fan letter, and yet, here we are again. This time it's job crafting — a concept I stumbled across in The Art of Danish Living, and one that, once I read it, I realised I'd been doing for years without ever having a name for it.

So, what is it?

Job crafting is the idea that a job description is really just a starting point, not a cage. Most of us assume our role is fixed: here are your tasks, here are your hours, off you go. But research on workplace happiness — and the Danes seem to have made a national sport of studying this — suggests something rather liberating. We don't just passively occupy our jobs. We can actively reshape them, in small and large ways, to fit who we are.

There are, broadly, three ways people do this:

Task crafting — changing what you actually do day to day. Leaning into the parts of the job that light you up, and finding ways to minimise, delegate, or redesign the parts that drain you.

Relational crafting — changing who you spend your working time with, and how. Seeking out the colleagues who challenge or energise you, deepening certain relationships, adjusting how you interact with the people around you.

Cognitive crafting — and this is the quiet one, the one that happens entirely in your head. It's reframing the meaning of what you do. Not "I drill grammar into six-year-olds" but "I open a small window onto the world for someone who's only just learning to see it."

None of these require permission from anyone. That's rather the point.

How I do it, as a teacher

Running a boutique school like English with Maria, in Wołomin, with five teachers and around a hundred students ranging from toddlers to grown adults, I've had a lot of unplanned opportunities to notice this in myself.

Task crafting, for me, has looked like protecting Sunday mornings for Book Espresso — my little weekly ritual of publishing a short text and pulling different levels of learners into the same conversation. Nobody asked me to do this. It isn't in any job description, mine or anyone else's. But it lets me combine two things I genuinely love — reading and language teaching — into one task that feels like mine, rather than something imposed.

Relational crafting shows up in how I structure my week across age groups. Teaching a room of four-year-olds in the early afternoon and a group of thoughtful adults in the evening isn't just variety for variety's sake — it's a deliberate choice to keep both the playful and the philosophical sides of teaching alive in me. I need both. I'd wilt with only one.

And cognitive crafting — this is the one I catch myself doing almost daily, usually without noticing until afterwards. On the days when a lesson feels like an uphill slog, I remind myself of the "why" I wrote about a few weeks ago. I'm not correcting homework; I'm building someone's confidence to speak in a language that isn't their own. Framed that way, even the dull bits stop feeling quite so dull.

Why this matters beyond me

I think job crafting matters especially for small teams like mine. With only five of us, there's no HR department dreaming up "engagement initiatives." What there is, instead, is a genuine amount of autonomy — each teacher gets to decide, within reason, how they want to shape their corner of the school. Someone who adores working with toddlers can lean into that. Someone who finds their spark in exam preparation with teenagers can build more of that into their week. It isn't chaos; it's craftsmanship.

And I suspect this is true well beyond teaching. Whatever your job is — accountant, nurse, barista, translator — there's very likely a version of it, hiding just beneath the surface of your job title, that you could shape a little more deliberately toward what actually gives you energy.

So here's my question for you this week: if you looked closely at your own job, where's the one small corner you could reshape — a task, a relationship, or simply the story you tell yourself about why it matters?

I'd genuinely love to hear your answer in the comments.

This post continues the conversation started in "Why do you do it?" — part of an ongoing series on meaning, motivation, and happiness at work.

Why do you do it? Part 1: The Power of "Why"

 The Power of "Why"

            In the bustling world of language education, where the cacophony of grammar rules and vocabulary lists often takes precedence, there lies a fundamental question that is frequently overlooked: "Why do you do it?" This question, deceptively simple in its construction, holds the key to unlocking not just the motivation behind our actions but also the deeper connections we forge with our passions, our work, and ultimately, ourselves.

            As a teacher of English and a university lecturer, I have spent countless hours pondering over the intricacies of language and communication. My journey began years ago, driven by a desire to bridge gaps and build bridges between cultures through the power of language. Yet, as I stand in front of my students, whether they are eager young children or contemplative adults, I am often reminded of the importance of asking myself, "Why do you do it?"

            This question, inspired by the insightful writings of Meik Wiking, challenges us to look beyond the surface of our daily routines and delve into the core of our motivations. Wiking suggests that instead of the conventional "What do you do?" we should ask "Why do you do it?" This shift in perspective not only reframes our understanding of work but also transforms our approach to life itself. It encourages us to seek meaning and purpose in our actions, rather than merely focusing on the tasks at hand.

            In my boutique English school, English with Maria, nestled in the charming town of Wołomin, this question has become a guiding principle. With a dedicated team of five teachers and a community of approximately 100 students, ranging from children to adults, we strive to create an environment where the "why" is as important as the "what." Our mission goes beyond teaching English; it is about instilling a love for learning, fostering curiosity, and empowering our students to explore the world with confidence.

            Each Sunday, as I prepare to publish my weekly book Espresso series—short reflections on the books I read—I am reminded of the profound impact that stories and narratives have on shaping our understanding of the world. Books, much like languages, are vessels of culture and knowledge, offering us a glimpse into the diverse tapestry of human experience. Through these reflections, I hope to inspire my readers to ask themselves, "Why do you do it?" and to discover the stories that resonate with their own journeys.

            The power of "why" lies not only in its ability to inspire introspection but also in its potential to foster empathy and connection. When we ask "why," we invite others to share their stories, their dreams, and their struggles. We create a space for dialogue and understanding, where each person's journey is valued and respected. In a classroom setting, this approach transforms the learning experience from a transactional exchange of information to a collaborative exploration of ideas and perspectives.

            As educators, it is our responsibility to nurture this sense of inquiry and curiosity in our students. By encouraging them to ask "why," we empower them to become critical thinkers and lifelong learners. We teach them that learning is not just about acquiring knowledge but about questioning the world around them and seeking answers that are meaningful and relevant to their lives.

            In the context of language learning, the question "Why do you do it?" takes on a special significance. Language is not just a tool for communication; it is a gateway to understanding and connecting with others. By exploring the reasons behind our desire to learn a language, we uncover the motivations that drive us to embrace new cultures and perspectives. Whether it is the desire to travel, to connect with family, or to advance in one's career, understanding the "why" enriches the learning experience and makes it more purposeful.

            For parents of young children, asking "why" can be a powerful way to engage with their child's education. By understanding the motivations behind their child's interests and activities, parents can better support their learning journey and foster a love for discovery. In my school, we encourage parents to be active participants in their child's education, to ask questions, and to explore the "why" together with their children.

            For adults, the question "Why do you do it?" can serve as a catalyst for personal and professional growth. It prompts us to reflect on our goals and aspirations, to assess whether our actions align with our values, and to make informed decisions about our future. In the fast-paced world we live in, taking the time to ask "why" can provide clarity and direction, helping us to navigate the complexities of modern life with purpose and intention.

            As we embark on this exploration of "why," I invite you to join me in this journey of self-discovery and reflection. Together, we will delve into the stories and experiences that shape our understanding of work, learning, and life. We will uncover the motivations that drive us to pursue our passions and the connections that bind us to our communities. Through this exploration, we will find meaning and purpose in the everyday actions that define who we are and what we do.

            In the following entries of this blog post, we will explore the various dimensions of the question "Why do you do it?" We will examine the role of motivation in education, the importance of fostering curiosity and creativity, and the impact of meaningful work on our well-being. We will also consider the ways in which asking "why" can enhance our relationships, both personal and professional, and how it can lead to a more fulfilling and enriched life.

            As we continue this journey, I encourage you to reflect on your own experiences and to ask yourself, "Why do you do it?" What drives you to pursue your passions? What inspires you to learn and grow? How does your work contribute to your sense of purpose and fulfilment? By engaging with these questions, we can uncover the deeper motivations that guide our actions and find greater meaning in the paths we choose to follow.

            In conclusion, the power of "why" lies in its ability to transform our understanding of ourselves and the world around us. It challenges us to look beyond the surface, to seek meaning in our actions, and to connect with others in meaningful ways. As we embark on this exploration of "why," let us embrace the opportunity to discover new perspectives, to learn from one another, and to find purpose in the work we do. Together, we can create a world where the question "Why do you do it?" is not just a curiosity, but a guiding principle that shapes our lives and our communities.

        

Happiness At Work

 Those who are Polish surely know this scene:

BUT THIS STORY IS DIFFERENT....

I first stumbled upon Meik Wiking quite a while ago, casually adding a couple of his books to my ever-growing “to-read” list (which, I must admit, is getting slightly out of hand). It was only recently, however, that I finally got round to sitting down with The Art of Danish Living: How to Find Happiness In and Out of Work. And once I did, I found it rather difficult to put down.

What struck me almost immediately was a small yet thought-provoking detail: in Nordic cultures, people often wish each other “good work” or express a genuine hope that the other person will feel motivated and fulfilled in what they do. It’s such a simple idea, yet it stopped me in my tracks. It got me wondering—what about us? What do we actually say to one another before heading off to work? And perhaps more importantly, what do we really mean by it?

Curiosity got the better of me, so I decided to carry out a tiny, thoroughly unscientific (and admittedly biased) survey among friends and acquaintances. I cast the net a bit wider than just Poland, reaching out to people living and working in different countries. I asked a straightforward question: what, if anything, do you wish each other before work? And—here’s the interesting bit—does the reply carry even a hint of irony?

The answers were, to say the least, revealing.

Among my fellow teachers, the go-to phrase is usually “Have fun.” Now, before you jump to conclusions, it’s not that we don’t take our work seriously or spend our days simply messing about. Far from it. Beneath that seemingly light-hearted wish lies something far more meaningful. When we say “Have fun,” we are really hoping for engaged students, lively discussions, moments of genuine connection—those instances when a lesson takes on a life of its own. That’s where the real joy kicks in.

And believe me, as someone who works with both adults and children, I can say without batting an eyelid that truly eye-opening conversations can happen even with four-year-olds. Yes, four. They have a knack for cutting straight to the heart of things, often catching you off guard. So you’d better stay on your toes.

Then there’s another group—let’s call them “the office crowd.” Interestingly, their responses seem to follow a similar pattern regardless of where they are based: Poland, Bulgaria, Sweden, Germany, Austria, Italy, Greece, Turkey—you name it. They are, in a way, a hard nut to crack. On the surface, many of them claim to enjoy their jobs and feel a sense of belonging within their organisations. And yet, when it comes down to it, work is still… well, work.

When greeted with a cheerful “Have a good day,” the reply is often tinged with a touch of resignation: “Well, at least the weekend is coming,” or “Thursday is the new Friday.” It’s all said half-jokingly, of course, but there’s often a grain of truth in it. The subtext is clear—people are counting down the days.

And so, it seems that for many, life is measured in relation to the weekend: how far away it is, or how quickly it is slipping through our fingers.

If I’m being completely honest, I’m not entirely sure what your weekends look like, but mine tend to pass in the blink of an eye. One minute it’s Saturday morning, full of promise, and the next it’s Sunday evening, and you’re wondering where on earth the time has gone. The slightly sobering reality is that they’re usually filled with perfectly ordinary “adulting”: shopping, cleaning, cooking, ferrying children to their extracurricular activities, squeezing in a quick catch-up with friends, and—every now and then—perhaps a bit of entertainment if time allows.

Which brings me back to a Danish word that doesn’t quite have an equivalent in English: arbejdsglæde—the joy of work. A concept so simple, yet so elusive.

So why is it that the Danes consistently rank among the most satisfied when it comes to their working lives? Is it a matter of mindset, culture, work-life balance—or something else entirely?

I’d love to hear your thoughts. Do you look forward to your work, or are you counting down the days until Friday? What do you wish others before they start their working day—and what do you really mean by it?

Let’s continue the conversation in the comments below.

Why Teddy Bears Still Matter in a Child’s World

 

In a world full of digital toys and fast-changing trends, it’s easy to forget the quiet power of something as simple as a teddy bear. Yet for many children, this soft, familiar companion plays a far more important role than we might imagine.

Teddy bears are often a child’s first comfort toy, offering reassurance during moments of uncertainty. Whether a child is starting school, visiting the doctor, or sleeping away from home, having a familiar teddy bear nearby helps them feel safe and understood. These early experiences with emotional support toys play a meaningful role in building confidence and resilience.

They’re also powerful tools for imaginative play. With just a bit of creativity, a teddy bear can become a superhero, a patient, a student, or a best friend. Through these pretend scenarios, children practice communication, problem-solving, and emotional expression. This type of child development play strengthens social and emotional skills that help them navigate real life.

Caring for a teddy bear—feeding it pretend snacks, tucking it into bed, taking it on family trips—encourages empathy. These small moments show children what it means to take care of someone else, making teddy bears one of the most valuable childhood toys for emotional development.

And then there are the memories. A well-loved teddy bear becomes a keepsake that stays with families for years, reminding parents of bedtime stories, milestones, and those precious early stages of growth.

In short, a teddy bear is more than a toy. It’s a child’s companion, comfort object, and imaginative partner. That’s why teddy bears for children remain one of the most meaningful gifts parents can offer—helping little ones feel secure, creative, and deeply cared for.

Be Careful What You Dream Of

 This text is part of the Book Espresso project. A dictionary, and some exercises are waiting for you on our e-learning platform. This is the link: https://www.e-course.pl/moodle/course/view.php?id=13

 Be Careful What You Dream Of

When I was a little girl, I used to spend at least a month every summer at my grandparents’ holiday home. It was a simple place tucked away in the countryside, with a wide terrace that became my imaginary kingdom.

My favourite thing in the world was playing “house” out there. My grandmother — practical and endlessly kind — had given me some real bits and bobs to make it feel authentic: an old spice cabinet, a few battered pots and pans, some mismatched cutlery, cushions, and little rugs. To me, it was magic. A proper little home of my own.

And of course, part of “playing house” meant keeping it clean. That was what I’d seen both my grandmothers do every single day — wiping, sweeping, scrubbing — always with purpose and pride. One of my greatest joys was brooming the stairs and giving them a good wash.

Now, that particular activity was strictly off-limits. The stairs were steep and got slippery when wet — definitely not safe for a child. But I found my moments. While my grandparents were having their afternoon siesta or popping out for groceries, I’d seize the opportunity. Armed with a broom and a bucket, I’d get to work, completely absorbed in my little domestic dream.

Fast forward forty years... and here I am, still sweeping and scrubbing stairs. Only now it’s not pretend. It’s life.

So, the moral of the story? 

Be careful what you dream of.

Or, if you’re the affirming type, make sure you affirm in detail — right down to the mop and bucket. 😂😅😆

P.S.This isn’t a complaint — just a gentle smile at how things come full circle.

This text is part of the Book Espresso project. A dictionary, and some exercises are waiting for you on our e-learning platform. This is the link: https://www.e-course.pl/moodle/course/view.php?id=13