“To be happy at home,” said Samuel Johnson, “is the end of all human endeavour.” There is a quiet, unmistakable truth in that statement—one that reverberates through the centuries and into the simple, sacred moments of our own lives. As long as we are thinking only of natural values, as C.S. Lewis suggests, we must conclude that there is nothing under the sun quite as good as a household laughing together over a meal, two friends talking over a pint of beer, or a man alone, lost in the pages of a book that truly grips him. If this is true, then all economics, politics, laws, armies, and institutions—everything the world fights over—matter only to the extent that they allow such moments to flourish. Otherwise, they are little more than ploughing the sand and sowing the ocean—a vanity, a vexation of spirit.
I have spent a lifetime chasing meaning in different ways, but I keep finding it in the same places: at my own dining table, in the sound of my children’s laughter, in the arms of my wife, and in the small but profound joys of everyday life. These are the things that make a life worth living.
Sixteen Years with My Best Friend
It’s hard to believe that I have been married to my best friend for sixteen years now. In many ways, it feels like no time at all, yet in others, it feels like we have lived a thousand lives together. We have built a home, raised children, carried each other through loss and hardship, and celebrated victories both great and small, Elzaan studied, then I studied, she changed careers, I got fired a couple times. And through it all, love has remained—not the fleeting, romanticized version the world sells, but the deep, steady, and abiding love that grows stronger with time.
There is something profoundly good about sharing your life with someone who truly knows you, even more than you know yourself at times—the good, the bad, and the unfinished parts—and chooses to stay. There is a Sacredness in the way we move through life together, from morning cups of coffee, and tea that she doesn’t finish, to late-night talks, as I’m trying to fall asleep, when the house is finally still.
We have built a home together—not just a house, but a home, where laughter is common, where books are stacked in corners, where music plays, and where even silence feels warm. The world outside can be chaotic and uncertain, but here, in the place we have built, there is peace.
We will call this place our home
The dirt in which our roots may grow
Though the storms will push and pull
We will call this place our home
We’ll tell our stories on these walls
Every year, measure how tall
And just like a work of art
We’ll tell our stories on these walls
Let the years we’re here be kind, be kind
Ryan O’Neal – North
A R2 Man in the Valley
There are few things in life as restorative as a good beer, shared in good company, in a place that feels like home. For me, that’s a R2 Man—a deep, amber-hued Irish ale from Richmond Hill Brewing Company. There’s something about holding that cold pint in my hands, feeling the weight of the glass, watching the micro bubbles settle, and taking that first sip that reminds me that life is not meant to be rushed. It’s meant to be savored.
In the valley, where the air is thick with the scent of the ocean, where conversation drifts between the walls of the brewery, the sound of barbells hitting the floor at Valley Road and the pizza from downstairs and lingers in the warm evening air, I find a kind of joy that is both simple and profound. To sit with a friend, to talk about life, to let time slip away unnoticed—these are the moments that make life rich. It is in these spaces, where nothing particularly “productive” happens, that we are most alive.
We spend so much of our lives striving for things that do not last — “success”, money, recognition — but the greatest moments, the ones that truly matter, are often the ones that require no striving at all.
Playing Cricket in the Yard with Daniel
There is a timeless kind of magic in playing cricket in the yard with my son, Daniel. The way he grips the bat, the determination in his eyes as he watches the ball, the joy when he makes a good hit, the bowling, the catching, the running up and down the pitch, the ruining the grass and Guinness chasing the ball.
Daniel is eight now, and he loves sports the way I did when I was his age. He dreams big, plays hard, and throws himself fully into the moment. When we are out there in the yard, the rest of the world fades away. There are no deadlines, no worries—just the rhythm of the game, the laughter, and the shared joy of a father and son.
One day, he will be grown. One day, the yard will be empty, the bat and ball put away, and these moments will be only memories. But for now, we play. And that is enough.
Swimming with Lizzy
Lizzy, my five-year-old, has a love for water that is unmatched. She dives in fearlessly, her laughter echoing off the walls at Virgin, her little hands splashing wildly. There is no hesitation, no doubt—just pure, unfiltered joy.
Swimming with her is like stepping into a world where nothing else matters. The worries of the day are washed away, and all that remains is the feeling of weightlessness, the coolness of the water, and the sound of her giggles as she clings to my back, kicking furiously.
There is something sacred about these moments, something Holy in the way she trusts the water, in the way she trusts me to hold her, to keep her safe. I know these years are fleeting, that she will not always need me in the same way she does now. But today, she does. And I do not take that for granted.
The Meaning of It All
If happiness at home is the end of all human endeavor, then the things we spend our lives chasing must ultimately serve that purpose. If they do not—if they take us away from these moments rather than enriching them—then what are they really worth?
Too often, we measure success in ways that do not account for the things that matter most. We chase careers, accolades, wealth, and status, believing that if we can just achieve more, we will finally be content. But contentment is not found in the pursuit of more. It is found in the moments we pause, in the spaces we create, in the love we nurture.
A world that does not protect these things—a world that does not fight to preserve the laughter of families, the camaraderie of friends, the quiet joys of a good book, or the sacred ordinary moments of a life well-lived—is a world that has lost sight of what truly matters.
And so, my prayer, my hope, my guiding principle is this: that my life would be shaped not by what the world calls success, but by the laughter of my children, the love of my wife, the joy of a simple pint, and the peace of a home filled with warmth and light.
Because in the end, that is all that matters. And that is enough.
