The gratitude jar experiment

For the second year in a row, my husband and I agreed to participate in a gratitude challenge, where we’d deposit almost a year’s worth of notes—our private thoughts— into a large glass Mason jar.

I had failed at the experiment the year before; it had grown cumbersome and forced, writing little notes about all that I was grateful for. It didn’t bring me happiness, it mostly made me feel annoyed at having another thing to do. It felt like toxic positivity.

But my husband enjoyed it last year, and we decided to try again, this time shortening the length of the experiment. Instead of reviewing the jar’s contents on Jan. 1, we agreed to review them over Thanksgiving, a holiday where people are encouraged to hold gratitude front and center.

This year, again, I was desperate to feel gratitude. But once again, it didn’t go as expected.

By summer, I was a gratitude deadbeat. I’d contributed next to nothing to the jar, having let Matt’s contributions fill it to the brim. Overcome with curiosity, I cheated in August. Without telling Matt, I’d dumped out and reviewed the contents long before our agreed-upon expiration date of Thanksgiving.

The jar confirmed what I’d already known: Matt had spent most of 2022 conjuring gratitude for things big and small, from happy little errands on his own to time we spent together. It would be easy to deride him in mind for being a Pollyanna, but the truth is, I was envious.

I had a decision to make: Confess to Matt and end the whole experiment, or dig in and start writing things that (supposedly) make me feel appreciative. I was hesitant to try. What if it didn’t work?

I began to tell myself all sorts of stories about what my lackluster performance meant. After two years of failing at gratitude, the jar had almost become sentient, mocking me from its spot on the dining room table. Is there anything worse than being an ingrate? Is there anything worse than being married to one?

It seemed I was an outlier: According to the Mayo Clinic, gratitude challenge participants find new appreciation for life. What was wrong with me?

I waited until I was almost 40 years old to get married, and feel lucky to have found such a loving and sensitive man. But in truth, gratitude—as a concept—does not come naturally to me. I’m a cynical curmudgeonly type.

We’ve been married for three years, and Matt and I had spent most of our union in isolation, first because of the pandemic, and then because of my disdain for venturing out in public (I do my grocery shopping before 8 a.m. to the extent possible). Our social life is nearly nil and we’re both grumpier than usual, my negative attitude in particular sustaining far longer than seems healthy.

I felt guilt in cheating on the experiment. But I also experienced a shift as I pored over Matt’s scratchy handwriting. It felt as though I was reading a map of how we spent 2022 together. Matt’s notes described his gratitude for the smallest of details, individual moments that—for me—all blended together, such as picking up books from the library or cuddling with our new rescue cat. He even included a note about watching TV together and trying a new beer.

In reviewing his contributions, I was suddenly overcome with renewed appreciation for my marriage and the life we’ve built together. You could even call it gratitude.

I went into this experiment expecting it to fail. But I just needed to have gratitude modeled for me.

I quickly scribbled a few things that didn’t feel forced or fake: teaching a new batch of students, writing a book and finding my favorite hard-toget Italian cookie online.

While I’m still not a gratitude junkie, I’m feeling less like a curmudgeon these days. I’d call that a success.