Dedication
For Ginger and Cate
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Praise
Also by Kristyn Kusek Lewis
Copyright
About the Publisher
One
It is just past eight o’clock on Saturday morning when Charlotte McGanley hears a strange rustling and looks up from her coffee cup. She is sitting outside on her back porch, at the weathered, wooden IKEA picnic table that she and Jason bought fifteen years ago, just after they married. Her journal is in front of her. She’s trying to indulge in what has always been one of her favorite rituals of the season: a few moments alone outside with her coffee, in the finally warm sunshine of early spring, the house to her back still quiet.
When her daughter was younger, this was a time Charlotte cherished. Jason would keep Birdie inside, occupied with Sesame Street or cinnamon toast or Chutes and Ladders, and Charlotte would scribble away, her thoughts pouring out of her so easily that by the time she came back inside, she felt cleansed. Light and serene, like she’d just emerged from under the hands of a very good masseuse. But lately, even though she has plenty on her mind, the words won’t come.
She sighs, her pen hovering over the page. Her intentions are good. Writing in a journal, or journaling, as they say, which makes it sound more physical (but also a little pathetic, she’s always secretly thought), is one of the core habits that she prescribes to her students and readers. Not only has she personally found that it works (back when she and Jason tried to have a second child and ultimately failed, it was actually one of the things that got her through) but the research clearly supports it. People who journal are happier. More resilient. More grateful. Just last week, she told her undergraduate students that keeping a journal is the psychological equivalent of taking your vitamins.
And yet . . . The only thing she’s managed this morning is a doodle of a trailing flower vine along the upper right-hand corner of a blank page. What’s that phrase, she thinks. Squeezing water from a stone? That’s what she feels like lately: the stone. Quick, like a lightning flash, her mind flickers on Jason, how the night before, he’d called her “cold.” An awful thing for a man to call his wife. Too close a side step to “frigid.”
She hears the sound again and looks up. What is it? And then it stops.
She flips back to the last time she wrote and, noting the date on the entry, feels a sense of defeat. It was nine days ago, and even then, it was a half-baked gratitude list, consisting of three unimaginative items, bullet-pointed with little ballpoint-pen stars:
Coffee
Slept through the night
No rain today
The rest was a scribbled smattering of reminders in the margin of the page: Call orthodontist—Birdie checkup reskedge, window washers?, Amazon: laundry detergent.
Did I remember to put the new checkup appointment in my calendar? she thinks. And then she hears the noise again—louder this time—and jumps, a little yelp escaping from her mouth.
Jesus, settle down, she scolds herself, running her hands over her face. Maybe she’s off because of the extra glass of wine last night, she thinks, feeling a twinge of shame for having drunk it only because it was Friday and she was bored sitting on her end of the couch, scrolling through Instagram while Jason watched the hockey playoffs. (Was this why they both worked so hard all week? she’d thought. For this?) She feels a sinking darkness, like she’s slipping underwater, remembering their bickering before bed, how she’d caught a glimpse of Jason rolling his eyes at her just before she turned out the light.
Hearing the rustling again, she takes a last gulp of lukewarm coffee (from a mug with “Do more of what makes you happy” printed on its side), and stands, determined to find the cause. When she steps off the porch, the wet grass tickles her feet, dampening her slippers, and she reconsiders for a moment, glancing toward Mr. Marchetto’s house, where she can see her neighbor in his open window preparing breakfast. But that sound . . .
It’s almost like cellophane crinkling, but there’s a chirpy squeaking, too. Maybe chipmunks? She’s used to spotting all sorts of animals in her yard. People back home in Georgia can’t believe her when she tells them, but even though she’s barely five miles from the DC line, she frequently sees deer, raccoons, and families of foxes frolicking in the grass. Mr. Marchetto even saw a coyote in their driveway once. The wildlife tortures Sylvie, their elderly golden retriever, and Charlotte’s relieved that the dog is still inside, having taken over her spot in the bed the minute Charlotte got up.
Once upon a time, they wouldn’t have let Sylvie on the bed, and for a while, she was banned from the room, due to her tendency to sit right beside the bed while they were having sex, watching them so intently that it was like she was a judge on one of those TV dance competitions. But now, it seems like a moot point. The last time they had sex was seven months ago, and even then, it felt more like an obligation because it was Jason’s birthday. Over seven months, Jason had said last night, when she pushed his hand off her hip. I’m too tired, she said. I had too much wine. She turned off the lights and they turned their backs to each other, and in the tense awful dark, she reached out for him, feeling guilty. She’s told him that it bothers her, too, how they never even try anymore, but that’s a bit of a lie, because while she misses the closeness they once shared, and the intimacy that was more than just physical, not having sex actually feels like a tremendous relief, one less thing on her to-do list. He didn’t respond to her hand on his shoulder blade last night, her half-attempt at an apology. She turned back over. She went to sleep.
The sound, Charlotte realizes as she makes her way through the damp yard, is coming from the other side of the deck. She crouches, taking tentative steps, remembering the time years ago when they were having dinner on the porch and watched a fox snag a squirrel right off the trunk of one of the oak trees. Or the time when Jason, digging ivy out of the flower beds, discovered a copperhead coiled just feet from where Birdie had been jumping rope less than an hour before. Charlotte begged him to call animal control, but he refused, instead insisting that the best thing was to just leave it be and let it go on its way. “I’m a keeper at the National Zoo,” he’d said, laughing as he followed her into the house. “You really think I’m going to call the morons at animal control?”
She takes one final step around the deck and then she sees it.
“Oh!” she gasps. There is not just one animal beside the deck but . . . she counts . . . one, two . . . Four bunnies! A perfect little bunny family! They’re huddled together, three big ones and a baby, and they are feasting on the leaves of her rhododendron. Instantly, her hand goes for her phone in the pocket of her robe.
She stretches her arms out to take the photo—it’s a flawless shot with the pink petals in the background, like something you might see on a wall calendar in a pediatrician’s office. When the clicking camera sound punctures the air, the bunnies freeze, their paws poised perfectly in front of their little chests, their big gumdrop eyes trained on her, the middle one—the smallest one—with a triangl
e of green leaf poking out from its mouth.
Yes! It’s perfect. The bunnies scurry off, and she walks back to the porch, a wave of satisfaction settling over her for the first time today. She opens Instagram, composing a caption in her head. Birds chirping, sun shining, and these little guys making my backyard feel like something out of a Disney movie today, she types. Happy morning, friends! She hits share and then immediately begins swiping down; one time, and then another, and then another. Within seconds, there are 153 likes. Her 93,000 followers love these sorts of posts. Simple. Wholesome. Happy.
She sits, picking up her pen and opening the journal again. It’s pale green. She bought it at an airport newsstand during a layover on her way back from giving a talk at a women’s luncheon in Dallas last month. The trip had been a hit. They all were lately, which she attributed to how she had tailored the boilerplate talk she’d been giving since her book, Perfect Happiness, came out two years ago. She’d learned that it was important to play to your audience, that they warmed to you more quickly if they could relate to you. So when she went to Dallas, she hit Drybar first and had her white-blond bob blown out, and wore a hot pink dress she’d bought in Savannah, something she’d never wear to speak to a crowd in Chicago or the Northeast, where she wore charcoal and navy, and kept her hair simple and her nails neutral.
In Dallas, her nails matched her dress. During her talk, she’d improvised with some extra bullet points about the importance of self-care, and scanning the tables of well-preserved women, she made a quip about day spas: “I don’t know about y’all,” she said, her voice taking on the accent she’d almost completely shed since leaving the South nearly twenty years ago. “But the aesthetician I see does as much for my well-being as any antidepressant could.” She also squeezed in just the tiniest mention of her Baptist upbringing, although she hadn’t been a regular churchgoer in decades. Some people might think she was pandering, but to Charlotte, none of it was insincere. She just felt that it was far easier for people to digest her message if they were comfortable with her. And she meant every word she said.
She puts her pen down on the still-blank page and picks up her phone again. 3,452 likes.
She’s been studying positive psychology—the science of happiness—since she was an undergrad psych student at Emory, where she stayed for a PhD. After graduation, she moved to Washington to teach at Georgetown, a move made much easier by her then-fiancé’s decision to sleep with somebody else. She got a little studio just off campus, and when she got homesick, her sweet brother, Aaron, shipped her Tupperware containers of boiled peanuts and pimento cheese via Next Day Air. One afternoon, just months into her new life, she got trapped in a thunderstorm while out for a run on the National Mall. She sprinted up the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, waiting out the rain under Abe’s solemn gaze, and then, while reading the words of the Gettysburg Address inscribed on the wall, she took a step back and bumped right into another runner who was doing the same thing. Two years later, she married him. Birdie, conceived on their honeymoon in Costa Rica, came just after her thirtieth birthday.
Home, at that early time in their family’s life, was everything she’d wanted it to be, almost too good to be true. At work, she hustled. She stood barely five feet tall, hardly a demanding presence, and when she first arrived at Georgetown, fellow faculty members often mistook her for a student. This only fueled her desire to outwork and outpublish them, which she did, building up a following of dedicated students who lapped up her theories about happiness and what she called “living a contented life.” She churned out research papers, publishing on her main area of focus: the idea that people can manifest positive emotions through deliberate action instead of letting their feelings be their guide. On the weekends, she and Jason drank beers on the back porch with their neighbors, the baby monitor on the table beside the chips and guacamole. They went for family bike rides, strapping Birdie into a little plastic seat on the back of Jason’s bike. Their little girl suddenly turned three, and then four, and then went off to kindergarten, her giant backpack dwarfing her as she climbed the steps onto the school bus. Jason told funny stories over dinner about the orangutans he cared for at the zoo. Charlotte was awarded tenure. Her mother continued to call and ask when she was coming home.
She sailed along for a while, doing her thing, juggling work and marriage and motherhood. She actually felt like she’d become the epitome of Susie Sunshine, which her father used to call her sometimes, because she really was the picture of happiness, always with a smile on her face, always doing her best to make the people around her feel good. People sometimes asked her, “Are you ever in a bad mood?” and she responded honestly—of course she got down sometimes. But from the time she was young, when her mother’s mercurial moods could change the tone of the house in an instant, her fake-it-till-you-make-it strategy had worked. Smile through the tears. Keep your focus forward.
And she had been tested. First, with her father’s death when she was in college. Then with Reese, her childhood sweetheart and fiancé, who’d been carrying on an entire relationship with another woman as he and Charlotte were brainstorming wedding venues and honeymoon destinations. And then, just when she’d built such a nice family, career, and life for herself in DC, she and Jason found they couldn’t conceive again. They tried and tried, racking up credit card debt on treatments, injecting Charlotte with an endless number of syringes. It was the hardest time in her life. She smiled at herself in the mirror and told herself it would be okay. To cope, she poured herself into work, and the outcome—her salvation, really—was the Intro to Happiness class she dreamt up during that time. It became a different sort of baby.
It is the most popular course in the university’s history. The Washington Post even ran a feature about it in the Sunday paper, with quotes from her students evangelizing about how much better they felt since taking the class, now that they’d learned strategies like unplugging for an hour every day, or getting more sleep, or spending face-to-face time with friends instead of just texting. And then, barely four years ago, she got the email that would change everything. It was from one of the organizers of the TEDxMidAtlantic conference, asking her if she’d like to speak.
At Georgetown, Charlotte had given a dizzying number of lectures over the years, but for some serendipitous reason, that TED talk sparked something. She started it the same way she started the Intro to Happiness class each semester, when she looked out at her lecture hall full of students—in hoodies, bedheads, and vegan leather sneakers—and said, “Rule Number One: If you want to be happier, you have to stop thinking so much.
“Stop wondering whether this is the life you should be living.
“Stop second-guessing your choices.
“Stop worrying about where you are or what you’re doing relative to those around you.
“Stop thinking so much about yourself.
“Stop thinking, period.
“Facts before feelings,” she said during the talk, which had just over four million views on YouTube the last time she checked. “You can soul-search, go deep with your vulnerability, spend your summer vacation at an ashram seeking out your higher calling, and sure, that stuff might work.” In the video, she pauses here, and flashes a conspiratorial smile. “Oprah and Gwyneth and Deepak will tell you that it works.” Chuckles erupt throughout the audience. “But that’s not for me.
“No, no,” she says. “I might look like Susie Sunshine,” she jokes, smiling a wide smile and tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear, and the crowd laughs because she really does, like a “human Tinker Bell,” her brother used to say, resting an elbow on the top of her head. “But I need hard facts. I need research. I don’t need more thinking and feeling. I don’t have time for more thinking and feeling.” More laughter. She waits for the crowd to quiet. “Listen, I’m not just being cheeky here,” she says, speaking slowly, thoughtfully. “Science is very clear about what makes people happy: time in nature, a daily gratitude practice, regular contact wit
h close friends, exercise, more sleep. Et cetera . . . et cetera. We’ve all heard these things a million times. But do you do them?” She pauses. “Do you do them? Or do you sit around wondering why you feel how you feel?” She holds her hands out to her sides, the tips of her fingers pressed to her thumbs like those of a yogini, and closes her eyes for a moment in faux introspection. “Honestly, the why-you-feel-the-way-you-do is a waste of time. It doesn’t matter so much. What matters is that you do something. Action first, feelings later. Fake it till you make it. Follow the facts.”
It wasn’t three weeks before an email popped up in her inbox from Wendy Harmon, a literary agent at one of the top agencies in New York, who said her mother had forwarded her the now-viral video. She wanted to know if Charlotte had ever considered writing a book, which of course she had. There isn’t a college professor on Earth who hasn’t.
What Charlotte never banked on was becoming a guru. The book (or, The Book, as she’d come to think of it) chronicled her attempt, according to the jacket copy, as a “frazzled wife and mother, to apply cutting-edge ‘positive psychology’ research to better her own life.” Not that she really felt that she needed to better her own life at the time, but Wendy and the editors at the publishing house who bought her manuscript thought that the secret sauce for the book’s success would be a personal approach. So she rewrote the draft she had initially submitted—essentially a regurgitation of the class she taught—with more anecdotes from her own life. This was much harder than she anticipated, the irony of course being, as she said to Jason, that writing a book about her personal quest for more happiness was actually making her a little bit miserable. (Also, she hated that the book cover called her “frazzled,” which made her feel like Cathy from the comics. Had any of her male colleagues ever been described as “frazzled”?)
Whatever, she told herself. She chose (naturally) to focus on the positive. It was an instant hit. She sold a zillion books, and the royalties were enough to knock out the IVF debt and finally complete the kitchen renovation they’d spent years saving for. And what was inside the book was mostly true. She wrote that she wasn’t depressed, and there wasn’t anything exactly wrong, but she wanted, as she stated in the introduction, “a deeper sense of satisfaction that she was living life to the fullest.” She promised her readers less stress, less fretting, that they wouldn’t end each day feeling they were crawling across a finish line. Life is more than a series of chores and tasks to be completed, she wrote. And while it’s totally unrealistic to expect to roll through each day in a state of bliss, aren’t we at least entitled to rest our heads on our pillows most nights feeling solidly content?
Perfect Happiness Page 1