The Hollow Chase: Distinguishing Pleasure from Happiness in a World Addicted to More

We were never meant to live like this.

Not in endless pursuit. Not hungry for the next like, the next dopamine hit, the next sip, scroll, or swipe. And yet here we are—consumers of products, people, and experiences. Addicted to novelty and numb to now. Somewhere along the way, the compass of our culture tilted, and what once pointed inward—to community, meaning, stillness, love—began to spin wildly toward the market of manufactured desire.

One of the most vital distinctions I’ve come to understand on this path is the one between pleasure and happiness.

Dr. Gabor Maté, whose work on addiction, trauma, and the human condition has left an indelible imprint on so many, reminds us that addiction is not about the substance or the behaviour. It’s about the pain. The disconnection. The longing for relief. He defines addiction as any behaviour that a person finds temporary relief or pleasure in, but that ultimately brings negative consequences and yet the person continues to crave and repeat it. Sound familiar?

Social media. Sugar. Work. Sex. Alcohol. Shopping. Even self-help.

Pleasure, by its very nature, is momentary. It’s a spike, a hit. Biochemically, it’s dopamine-fueled. Fast and fleeting. It’s not bad—pleasure is part of a full human life—but it becomes a trap when we mistake it for happiness.

Happiness, on the other hand, is rooted in something far more enduring. It’s quiet. It doesn’t shout. It often arises in stillness, in presence, in connection. Happiness is tied to serotonin, to contentment, to oxytocin and belonging. It’s a felt sense of “I’m okay,” not “I need more.”

And this distinction matters. Because the more we chase pleasure in place of happiness, the more addicted we become—to things, to people, to performance. We grow restless. Numb. We lose the ability to sit with ourselves. We overconsume and underfeel.

But how did we get here?

To understand this, we have to pan the lens back. Way back.

There was a time—not so long ago, in the long arc of human history—when our ancestors knew themselves as part of a web. They lived in deep relationship: with the land, with one another, with story and song. Their sense of self was communal, relational, embedded in ritual and reciprocity. There was hardship, yes. But there was belonging.

Colonialism, industrialization, and the rise of capitalism didn’t just reshape economies. They reshaped souls. The enclosure of land became the enclosure of the self. The commodification of nature led to the commodification of our bodies, our time, our worth.

And consumerism? It wasn’t born from desire. It was manufactured. Designed to keep us perpetually unsatisfied. The more we are told we are not enough, the more we buy. The more we ache, the more we consume. Addiction is not a personal failure—it is a profitable system.

We’re not only taught to chase pleasure; we’re taught to fear the alternative. To sit still. To feel pain. To not know what’s next. We’ve come to equate discomfort with failure and silence with lack. But in truth, healing begins where noise ends.

This is not a moral argument. This is a remembering.

A remembering that we are not broken. That wholeness was never lost—it was just buried beneath layers of false promise.

To reclaim happiness, we must learn to be with ourselves again. To allow for slowness. To choose nourishing over numbing. To notice when we are reaching out of habit, and gently ask: what am I really needing?

Happiness is not something we achieve. It’s something we return to. It lives in the sacred ordinary. In a shared meal. In a deep breath. In a belly laugh or a child’s hand in yours.

We cannot buy our way to happiness. We cannot consume our way into wholeness.

But we can remember. And we can choose again.