What happiest memories

My husband and I have been playing the card game “We’re Not Really Strangers” in bed, every night, for the past week or so. This new ritual was inspired by our therapist asking us to spend more time together…and, you know, the whole breaking open that happened last week.

WNRS isn’t really a game, though—at least not in the traditional sense. It’s more like a set of inquiries. Each card poses a question for one player to ask the other. Some are basic, like “Do you think I’m the kind of person who would ever get a name tattooed on my body? Why or why not?” And some are incredibly complex and intimate, like “What is one thing you think I should know about myself that I’m probably scared to learn?”

Last night, he pulled a card that asked me, “What’s your one happiest memory from this past year?”

I couldn’t answer it.

I laid there, scrolling through my mental archives like an IG feed, trying to think of all of the places I’ve been, the things I’ve done, the people I’ve spent time with.

Maybe the afternoons we’ve spent at our favorite winery, with the kids playing together, the dog at our feet, and the sun on our skin?

Maybe the time by myself at the mountain house last winter, when I had 5 whole days of quiet contemplation, long walks, and the freedom to cook whatever I wanted?

Maybe the 2 hours I spent playing “ice cream parlor” with my 3-year-old niece a few weeks ago when I was in NYC for work?

I’ve enjoyed all of those moments, each in different ways.

But I don’t know if any of them were my “happiest.”

I turned the question back on my husband, asking him what his happiest memory was, and he wasn’t able to come up with anything, either.

Both of our cups were empty.

He moved on, asking me to pull the next card, and our game continued. But I was emotionally stuck there. And clearly, since I’m writing this now, I still am.

What does it mean that neither of us could identify a truly happy moment in the last 365 days?

I woke up this morning with a deep sense of sadness. Failure, even. Maybe regret, too. How could I let a year pass (likely even more) without doing anything that’s made me happy? What does that mean about me? About all the self-work I’ve been doing, and the progress I thought I’ve made? What does that mean about our relationship? Our family? Our future?

I let those thoughts drag me underwater for a little while. But then I asked myself another question:

If I haven’t been happy in the last year, what does that mean I need to do in the next one?

Slow down.

Pay more attention.

Honor myself.

Open to love.

Stay present.

Seek wonder.

Stay curious.

Lighten up.

Let go.

Stop ignoring my knowing, even if I’m not always sure I believe it. Even if I keep asking it questions. Even if I can’t quite accept it yet.

That little flip of perspective triggered a shift.

Maybe the question that neither of us could answer doesn’t have to lead to self-blame or depression. Maybe it can lead to self-love and awakening. Maybe it can lead us to other questions, ones that will also be hard, but necessary, to answer.

Maybe my happiest memories of this year just haven’t happened yet.