What Makes You Happy?

Growing up, I remember my dad sitting at the head of our dining room table, leading games of Michigan Rummy. The details are fuzzy—I recently checked the internet to make sure the game actually exists—but the spirit of those evenings still lives inside me: a little jesting, some jostling, and always a lot of laughs.

So, when my about-to-go-to-college daughter said, “Mom, you’re the only one in our family who brags when she wins Old Maid,” I laughed.

I wanted to retort, the word is gloat, Kate, but I heard her point. I was beaming about the win—no doubt thoroughly annoying.

We were sitting in our living room in Maine. The fog was so thick we couldn’t use the deck that offers sweeping views of Somes Sound—the whole reason we rent the cottage every July.

Every part of me loves waking up early enough to sit out there in my pink-hearted pajamas and white Patagonia—coffee in hand—listening to the lobster boats and the birds offering their morning symphony. A squawk to the left. A chirp to the right. Something frog-like down below. Those few minutes make me very happy.

What makes you happy?

That was the question my high school counselor asked me decades ago when he pulled me aside in the hallway and sat me down in his office to see if I was okay. I couldn’t find the words to express what I was feeling—my tears spoke volumes to all I was holding inside—but that moment cracked something open. A longing to be more honest. With myself, and with others.

I had a hunch that being more authentic—although in truth, it’s not a word I would’ve used back then—might make me happier. And now I have decades of proof.

That journey into authenticity is at the heart of my story—the one I wrote about in my book. What I couldn’t know or understand as a teenager (but now I do as a 53-year-old) is how I had to overcome the voices inside that told me I wasn’t good enough—or worse, that I was too much.

Decimating shame is something we all must do, in some form, if we’re going to live as the truest version of ourselves. If we are, dare I say, to be happy.

Which brings me back to the card game.

I’d been looking forward to this concentrated time together as a family. But there we were, the first night. And for a millisecond, when Kate called me out on my ridiculousness, my eyes dropped to the worn-out beige carpet.

I was about to brush up against that old familiar “you’re too much” wound—but in its place, I heard a new question:

What part of me still needs filling?

And I smiled. Because the voice wasn’t wounded. She was strong. Connected. Curious.

I keep saying to my kids—and to myself—the hardest place to practice what we’re learning (and unlearning) is with our families. And the most important relationship we need to develop is the one we have with ourselves.

I like to think I’m operating from a fuller deck of consciousness these days—staying curious, humble, open, and positive (or at least aiming to).

But I’ll keep doing the work it takes to not let the scripts of my past interrupt the moments that are unfolding right in front of me.

I’ll meet those old unmet needs—and fill my own tank—by reminding myself of all the ways I’ve learned to ask for what I need and want.

And I’ll remember that my story isn’t over—I’m still learning, I’m still growing.

Above all, I’ll laugh. Loudly. Often. Because this—this right here—is what makes me happy. And deeply, deeply grateful.