When Flourishing Misses the Point

When I first encountered the Harvard Flourishing Study, I felt both admiration and frustration. I admired its ambition and scope. At last, researchers were attempting to measure more than economic status, health outcomes, or exposure to adversity. The study sought to define what it means to flourish as a human being—to move beyond survival toward a fuller vision of well-being. It outlined seven domains: emotional wellbeing, physical and mental health, safety, relationships, financial stability, substance use, and personal growth. These were clearly defined and theoretically grounded. The study represents a significant contribution to our understanding of human flourishing, and I continue to respect its contribution to the field.

Then I tried to use their survey in a high-poverty neighborhood of Topeka, Kansas.

I was working with a community chaplain ministry, trying to understand whether the neighbors we walked alongside were experiencing any kind of well-being. We wanted to know what mattered to them, what helped or hurt, what they thought a good life looked like. I believed the Harvard model could guide us. So, we piloted the survey, adding a section of questions about their participation in the ministry.

The results were disappointing.

Neighbors grew tired midway through. “What does this even mean?” someone asked, waving a page with words like self-actualization and life satisfaction. The questions were long, seemingly repetitive, and filled with assumptions. Most of all, they didn’t sound like the people we were talking to every day. 

Many neighbors disengaged halfway through. One person, holding up a page, asked, “What does this even mean?” The survey included terms like self-actualization and life satisfaction, and the questions often felt repetitive or irrelevant. More than anything, the language did not reflect the community’s everyday vocabulary or lived experience. I began to sense that the trust the chaplain team had carefully built over time was at risk. The process of reading each unfamiliar question out loud created visible discomfort. Respondents grew confused, fatigued, and at times frustrated.

I brought the survey to Mary, the lead Community Chaplain. She has lived and served in this neighborhood for most of her ministry life. Her presence commands respect—not because she demands it, but because she understands the people she serves. We sat down together and reviewed the survey line by line. “Nobody talks like this,” she said. “Not here.”

Together, we began revising. We reworded questions, eliminated jargon, and shortened the instrument considerably. Mary proposed that we ask about tangible realities: whether someone feels safe at night, whether they have someone to call when they are in pain, whether they are able to pay their bills or get enough to eat. We removed assumptions about banking access and stable housing. Instead of abstract prompts like “How often do you worry about meeting normal monthly expenses?” we offered clearer, more grounded questions: “Do you have monthly bills?” and “Are you able to pay them?”

We also changed the response format. The original “rate yourself from 0 to 10” scale felt overly clinical and abstract. We replaced it with practical response categories such as “No, I do not,” “I’d like help finding housing,” “I am taking steps toward stable housing,” and “Yes, I do.” These changes allowed for more nuanced, context-appropriate responses—answers that made sense in the rhythm and vocabulary of the community.

Most researchers do not have a Mary. They rely on instruments and analytics rather than local expertise. Surveys are often designed from a distance, administered quickly, and then withdrawn without any meaningful community participation. As a result, subtle cues—like body language, hesitation, or fatigue—are overlooked. Without community input, questions can unintentionally alienate or harm the very people we hope to learn from.

As the Urban Institute notes, “Engaging the community in informal conversations can help researchers understand the cultural norms and priorities within the community. These informal conversations are not only pertinent to establishing context but also essential to building trust and making community members more comfortable and more likely to share valuable insights” (Urban Institute, p. 3). More researchers should consider who they are trying to reach and how those individuals might experience the survey process.

Mary and her core team of trusted neighbors will soon pilot the revised version. It is shorter, clearer, and designed with their input. While it may not align with Harvard’s psychometric rigor, I believe it will yield more meaningful and accurate responses. It reflects the reality of the community we are studying, not just the theories of those who study from afar.

Measuring flourishing is not simply about identifying domains or creating a reliable tool. It requires asking questions in a way that respects the dignity and lived experience of the people responding. That cannot be done from a distance. It requires proximity—sitting on porches, walking alleyways, sharing meals, and, most importantly, listening.

Only then can we begin to ask the right questions.