A List That Changed My Life
This is a story about a full circle, a list, and the invisible threads that tie us together.
(If you’ve seen 500 Days of Summer, please imagine that sentence delivered by the movie's deadpan, omniscient narrator. You did? Perfect. Let’s begin.)
In October of last year, I was navigating a phase of life that could generously be described as "interesting, yet complicated." Let’s just say my usual cheerful, optimistic self was running on low battery and required a significant amount of sheer discipline to get going.
During my Italian conversation class one afternoon, I mentioned to my teacher (who has since gracefully crossed the border into actual friendship) that I was heading to London for work. When she asked if I had plans, I quickly produced a metaphorical spreadsheet of places to see and cafes to conquer. She nodded approvingly, but then threw a wildcard onto my itinerary: a West End play.
To sweeten the plot, she mentioned a London-based friend who was a total theater geek and literally reviewed plays for a living. (Sometimes I really question my life choices.) He had a website dedicated to what was hot on the London stage. Why not give it a browse?
Because I have a personal policy of never saying no to serendipitous travel recommendations, I scrolled through his site and stumbled upon a title: Every Brilliant Thing at the West End’s Sohoplace. The title was a mystery, but it starred Minnie Driver. That alone was enough for me to click "buy ticket" without reading a single review.
People Falling Over
Fast forward to a freezing evening in late October. I was sitting in the audience of a beautifully small, round, and cozy theater. I had arrived quite early, expecting nothing more than a quiet moment to thaw my hands.
I certainly didn't anticipate Minnie Driver casually walking up to me.
Starstruck, it took my brain a solid three business days to process what she was saying: “Would you mind taking this piece of paper? The only thing you would have to do is stand up and read these words when your number is called.”
I looked down. The number was 7. The words? “People falling over.”
Oh no. No, no, no. Audience participation. The absolute, undisputed crown jewel of my social nightmares.
But as the lights dimmed, the magic unfolded. Every Brilliant Thing has a deceptively simple premise: the protagonist narrates her life—its deep trials, its heartbreaks, and its quiet triumphs—through a list she started as a child to cure her mother’s depression. It’s a list of things that make life joyous and worth living.
#1. Ice cream.
#2. Water fights.
#3. Staying up past your bedtime and being allowed to watch TV.
The list crawls from childhood innocent delights to adult complexities, covering everything from the smell of old books to bubble wrap, with the ultimate goal of reaching one million. And the audience? We were the co-authors, chiming in when our numbers were called (and more, but I won’t spoil it for you).
Something shifted in me that night. When number 7 was called, not only did I not mind yelling “People falling over!” into a crowded room, I leaned into it. Within ninety minutes, I cried tears of deep melancholy and laughed tears of absolute joy.
To date, it is the best piece of theater I have ever witnessed.
Weeks Later: Bucket Lists vs. Appreciation Lists
Naturally, I became an insufferable evangelist for this play. I told everyone and anyone who would listen. A friend who happened to be in London went to see it a few days later based entirely on my aggressive recommendation. My Italian teacher booked herself a ticket for the Roman edition six months in advance.
I’ve written about bucket lists on this blog before, and you know how much I love them. See the Colosseum, hike Machu Picchu, eat (real) croissants in Paris. But I realized that night that an appreciation list is a whole different psychological beast.
While bucket lists chase the extraordinary, the brilliant things list forces you to romanticize the ordinary. It’s a psychological pivot from accumulation to gratitude—a reminder that a life well-traveled isn't just about the stamps in your passport, but the sensory details you notice while waiting for the train.
Months Later: The Full Circle
A few months ago, that same friend who saw the play in London was going through a rough patch. Feeling down, she grabbed a notebook and spent a few days documenting every brilliant thing in her own life. When she told me about it, I smiled. It’s comforting to know your friends are just as beautifully weird as you are.
Meanwhile, my Italian teacher finally saw the Italian adaptation in Rome and loved it just as deeply.
It made me think again about the ripple effect. In social psychology, behavioral contagion is a beautiful reality. When we share a piece of art, an emotional truth, or a travel experience, we aren't just passing on a recommendation; we are transferring something.
Look at how the dominoes fell:
A theater critic in London writes a blurb about a play on his website.
An Italian teacher in Rome tells me about that website.
I (Zurich-based) check it out and book a ticket.
I pass the recommendation to all my friends.
One friend finds a lifeline in a notebook months later after seeing the play.
The Italian teacher finally sees the play in Rome, and tells her theater critic friend in London the whole story.
The theater critic hears about this wild chain reaction and says that next time I’m in London, I should reach out.
We are all constantly dropping pebbles into the emotional pond of the world, rarely sticking around long enough to see where the waves hit the shore.
My Brilliant Things
I’ve been feeling a little stuck lately, so inspired by the constant need to stay grounded, I’ve started my own list. I’m still working on it, and likely will be for a long time, but here is a snippet of my own Brilliant Things list as of today:
#42. Watermelon.
#76. Running on a summer morning when the air is still breezy, while listening to an audiobook.
#124. Watching a football game per day for over a month … sometimes with an ice-cold apple cider, sometimes just screaming at the TV screen.
#138. When a chow chow looks back at you in a park just to make sure you're still admiring it.
#171. Full circles.
If where you live they are staging a version of this play, don’t think twice. Go buy a ticket. You’ll thank me later.
But you don't have to wait for a West End production to start noticing the ordinary magic around you. And you also don't need a theater ticket to remember that life, even in its heaviest moments, is still quietly brilliant.
It’s simple. Go ahead, just pull out a notebook or a phone.
What’s on your list?
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