I need my friends, I need my house, I need my garden.

What you need to stay whole

We often treat happiness like something we're supposed to find within ourselves alone—as if needing other people or physical spaces means we're somehow incomplete. But Richardson's simple list suggests something more honest: we're creatures who actually need specific, tangible things to feel grounded. Not in a weak way, but in the way a tree needs soil and light.

The genius here is that she doesn't rank these needs or apologize for them. Friends aren't just nice-to-haves for special occasions. Your house isn't just shelter—it's continuity, the place where your life actually happens. A garden, even a small one, offers something we increasingly forget we require: the rhythm of growth, seasons, your hands in dirt. These aren't luxuries that prove you've got it all figured out. They're the infrastructure of actually being okay.

What makes this matter now is how easy it is to feel like you should be fine anywhere, anytime—constantly available, perpetually adaptable, ready to perform. But Richardson's list is a quiet rebellion. It says: I know what I need to be myself. And maybe the most adult thing isn't transcending those needs, but being honest about them and protecting them fiercely.