Once again, I’m getting deep and dirty into happiness, exploring happiness theory out in the world. Maybe I’ll be happier for it in the long run, but sometimes I wonder…

Lately, I’ve been grumbling a lot about my life. Only a few months ago, back in Edinburgh, I was a 10 out of 10 happy. But now, after moving to Sierra Leone, I’m a 6 out of 10 at best.

It’s been difficult to make sense of what’s going on in what has become a daily battle to meet basic needs and remain hopeful. Yet it is the very human tendency of comparing against some benchmark – a past life, to others’ lives – that has fast become one of my biggest barriers to happiness right now. At the same time, if managed well, that natural tendency to compare can offer hope for a way forward.

Comparison with the past

Since moving here, I have often felt really bogged down reflecting on all the things I no longer have in my life. I’m less in the present than I once was.

When I think about the past, there is a painful sense of loss – of community and connection, of ease and comfort, of a decent home-cooked meal. I try not to dwell on what I’ve lost, but more often than not that means distracting myself with some dysfunctional dopamine-raising activity that only makes things worse. I find it difficult to sit and confront what I’m experiencing, even though I know that doing so would likely bring me more happiness.

The thing with comparison, as I keep reminding myself, is that it is a completely natural thing to do, as is the tendency to focus more on losses than gains.

But comparison is double-edged – on the one hand, such a tendency can leave us feeling miserable; yet on the other hand, if we are able to sit squarely with that loss, we might just be able to see what we need to make our lives better.

Another humbling sort of comparison

Yet there is another sort of comparison that is also strong on my radar as I navigate life in Sierra Leone. The sort of comparison that humbles me every time.

What struck me mid-grumble the other day is that whilst my life might be nowhere near as good as it was in Edinburgh, it is far better than that of the average Sierra Leonean, where, according to the latest World Happiness Report, people on average rate their lives 3.3 out of 10.

That comparison is harder to sit with.

It brings perspective and a deeper sense of gratitude for what I have, but also discomfort. It challenges the legitimacy of my own struggles. It makes my complaints feel trivial, even indulgent. And yet, my feelings don’t simply disappear because others have less. If anything, they become more complicated – layered with guilt.

I’m reminded of something I spent years researching: how income shapes happiness. The core idea is simple. It’s not how much we earn in absolute terms that matters, but how our income compares to others. Earning more doesn’t necessarily make us happier – it’s earning more than others that counts. Money brings status, and status can bring satisfaction.

By that logic, I should be thriving. And, in relative income terms, I certainly am.

In Edinburgh, I had a slightly below-average income. Here in Sierra Leone, working remotely in the same job, I earn 20-30 times the average income and have a large swimming pool, apparently the longest in Freetown, only a stone’s throw away from my back door.

And yet, I’m less happy overall than I was.

But Money is Only a Small Part of it

What my research also showed – something little talked about – is that income plays only a small role in overall wellbeing compared to other things: health, relationships, a sense of purpose, and feeling part of something.

And those are the very things that feel most fragile right now – the things I’ve lost.

Up in the hills above Freetown, life can feel isolating. Gated away from everyday life, I’m removed from the sense of community I once had. The relationships I had in Edinburgh are no longer close at hand, and building new ones – real ones – will take time.

My health has taken a hit too. The heat and the roads make long bike rides difficult, and even maintaining a reasonable diet has become a daily challenge.

These aren’t dramatic problems. But they are the kinds of things that have been shaping how life feels here, day-to-day.

And so, I find myself caught between two comparisons.

One that pulls me backwards – towards a life that felt full and easy, but is no longer mine.

And one that pushes me downwards – towards the reality that, by most standards here, I am doing very well.

Neither comparison brings peace.

What’s Missing

But the problem isn’t comparison itself. Rather it is how I relate to it.

Because if comparison with the past highlights what I’ve lost, it can also point me towards what I need. Not the exact things I had before, but the underlying needs they fulfilled – connection, movement, nourishment, belonging.

And looking around me here, I’m starting to see that those needs can be met in ways I don’t fully understand yet. I’ve met people who, despite real hardship, seem to meet those needs more directly than I do – and do a far better job of finding gratitude and acceptance in their daily lives, given their circumstances.

Many of my needs can be met here, even if the way of meeting them looks different from before. Others are harder to recreate. And some things – at least for now – are simply out of reach.

So, the task becomes one of discernment: separating the need from the strategy that once met it, and then figuring out what can be rebuilt, what needs to be adapted, and what to let go of.

We change what we can. We accept what we can’t. And, slowly, we learn the difference.

I have to remember there are many things here that I didn’t have before. The occasional sighting of monkeys in the garden. The chorus of birds in the morning. The warmth and openness of strangers I meet.

This life is just different. Harder in some ways, richer in others. And in embracing that difference, there’s the possibility of a better life – one that is slower, more mindful, and more appreciative; with more space for connection with my wife, and new activities I never knew I could enjoy.