‘The last time I cried was …’: The game helping families open up this Christmas

At a dinner party recently, we’d no sooner finished up our main course than the host pulled out a box emblazoned with the words, Where Should We Begin – A Game of Stories. I’d never heard of this game, where “there are no winners or losers.”

Its developer, psychotherapist Esther Perel, writes in the instruction manual that “everyone is on the same team. The intention is to come together around the magic of storytelling.” We have, perhaps, never needed this magic more.

Getting personal with dinner table guests I don’t know all that well is hard for me. I’m private. I fear I’ll be judged in some way.Credit:Getty Images

As family and friends gather during the holidays this year, it’s hard to escape how much has been written about how polarised we are, how many families are struggling to make ends meet and how a mental health epidemic is spiralling out of control. There’s too much pain, loss and fear. Vanessa Inn, best known for her workshops on finding what she refers to as one’s “essence,” has said, “we’re afraid of being judged, ridiculed, kicked out of the pack, and abandoned.” The result too often, Inn added. “We are further and further disconnected [from others] and feeling kind of empty, and then more and more afraid to show who we really are.”

My dinner host, a good friend and veteran of this storytelling game, said it provides a structure for learning how to listen better and not judge and how to allow ourselves to take the risk of being vulnerable with others.

Actually, I’m a fan of games where you can win – such as Risk (world domination) or Monopoly (money, money, money!). Also, as with many people, getting personal with dinner table guests I don’t know all that well is hard for me. I’m private. I fear I’ll be judged in some way. But I didn’t want to be the naysayer, so I reluctantly joined the game.

Each of us pulled a card with a question on it to be answered with a personal story. (If you didn’t like your question, you could exchange it.) Among them:

“I’ll never forget being bullied by …”

“The best gift I have ever received …”

“The last time I felt free …”

“It’s hard for me to say no to …”

Play started at the opposite end of the table from me – hurrah! – which allowed me to observe for a while. And to listen, which is an important aspect of the game. I won’t divulge my dinner companions’ stories, but let me say they felt real and raw. I saw tears and fears I’d had no clue about. Above all, a deepening sense of vulnerability emerged. Argh! That scared me: “If you see the real me, you might not like me.” And its corollary: “If I allow myself to see my real self, I might not like what I see.”

I was met with compassion and empathy. In the end, I felt like I’d allowed others to know me in a more authentic way, not just the shiny or buttoned-up Steven I usually present to the world.

I thought about Brené Brown, the best-selling author whose TEDx Talk has been viewed by more than 60 million people. She pointedly reminded people that “there is no intimacy without vulnerability.” To experience connection, we need to become vulnerable with one another. As my turn drew near, I became more nervous, realising I was being called to open up.

When it was time, I looked at the question on my card: “The last time I cried was …” At first, I didn’t know if I had an answer because I’m not really a crier. Then I remembered watching the latest Downton Abbey movie a few days earlier; this is the one where the beloved, deliciously sharp-tongued Dowager Countess (Maggie Smith) dies in bed surrounded by her loved ones. It’s a tear-jerker by design – and sappy as it was, I succumbed. I used that as my story, but immediately I realised I had missed the heart of the game.

So I tried again, and told the group about a week-long workshop on vulnerability I’d attended designed to help people navigate midlife issues. On the first day I had declared to a group of 20 strangers that “I’m not a crier.” That remained true until midway into the retreat when I revealed that my sister has advanced ovarian cancer, and I confessed to the retreat participants the overwhelming sadness I feel at the prospect of losing her. I didn’t want to cry then but it just happened: I bawled.

And almost immediately I felt embarrassed, as though everyone was judging me: “Oh, look at him.” “That big baby.” “Boys don’t cry.” But instead, several people came over to give me a hug, to thank me for trusting them by being so open.

After recounting this at the dinner party and ensuing game, much the same thing happened. I was met with compassion and empathy. In the end, I felt like I’d allowed others to know me in a more authentic way, not just the shiny or buttoned-up Steven I usually present to the world.

And I found myself admiring my fellow game players for being honest, for allowing and trusting me to really see them, all of which led me to experience a sense of real connection.

Looking toward a new year, that is a good lesson.

The Washington Post

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