I had a fortunate childhood in many ways. I grew up in a brownstone in Brooklyn with two loving parents, three sisters and a grandmother who lived with us. Although “Mamma” was technically my great-aunt (my real grandmother died when my mom was a baby), she was an elder maternal figure to my sisters and me. Mamma had dinner prepared for us every evening at 6 p.m.—traditional Caribbean meals like escovitch fish, callaloo and rice and peas, as well as favorites like roast beef with Yorkshire pudding and gravy that she learned to cook from working as a domestic chef. Her meals were legendary.

My mother was a homemaker, so every day when I came home from school, my mom and Mamma were there to greet me. Mom embroidered our initials on bath towels, sewed our clothes and created intricate needlepoints to grace the walls of our home. She loved beautiful things.

For as long as I can remember, my parents had a second home near Amish country in Pennsylvania. In the summers, we would drive the three-hour journey for what seemed like endless days of swimming, exploring and long nights of board and card games. I had a happy start in life.

Like many kids—and even adults—I didn’t always recognize what I had. I knew some of my friends lived in small apartments, had only one parent at home, ate dinner at 9 p.m. and didn’t have siblings. I didn’t know anyone else who had a summer home. I took my family and my home life for granted—it was all I knew. It felt like an episode of The Brady Bunch—completely normal.

This is not to say my childhood was perfect. Growing up in the streets of Brooklyn could be rough. Tragedy hit my life and my family in many ways. I suffered a childhood assault. Two of my sisters battled sickle cell disease throughout their young lives. Mental health issues impacted our family, partly from the trauma and devastation of chronic pain and disease and partly from the attempt to resolve the shame that results from lifelong disability and a physical attack. Add to that the complexities of genetics mingled with garden-variety American stress and dysfunction.

Ironically, my walk with gratitude started at one of the lowest points in my life. It wasn’t built on privilege—it was born of pain. The first time I heard of a “gratitude journal,” I was at a weekend retreat in the Georgia mountains. I was a single mom, working for far less than my worth, hanging by a thread financially and struggling with self-doubt. I spent a lot of time thinking about what wasn’t working for me. That weekend, I learned to shift my focus to the good in my life—a peaceful home, supportive friends, a well-adjusted teenage daughter and my own healthy body and mind.

It’s been nearly a decade since that weekend retreat. Three years later, I walked away from being an employee and became an entrepreneur in the field of personal development. Now, my gratitude practice includes daily journaling, mindfulness, meditation and what I call a “gratitude shower”—a weekly ritual where I thank each of my body parts for their miraculous function as I lather up. It’s so easy to forget to thank your eyes for seeing, your hands for holding, your heart for beating and your legs for walking.

Leaning into gratitude shifted my reality. I am a natural optimist and already saw my cup as half-full, but gratitude helped me to see my cup as overflowing. I wasn’t just “getting by;” I was living in one of the most vibrant cities in one of the wealthiest countries in the world. I wasn’t just a single mom; I was gifted with a thoughtful, intelligent, compassionate and healthy child. I wasn’t just underemployed; I was being nudged by the Universe to find the courage to pursue my passion and purpose as an entrepreneur.

Now, I coach people professionally. One of the things that always surprises my clients is that after working together for a few months, they become measurably happier. When asked, they will say their home is nicer than it was six months previously just because they’ve learned to appreciate it more. The power of gratitude is real. It changes the way we experience the world. It makes the sun shine brighter and the sky more blue. Because, at the end of the day, perspective is reality. ❧

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Trish Ahjel Roberts is the founder of the Mind-Blowing Happiness coaching company and author of the new book, The Anger Myth: Understanding and Overcoming the Mental Habits That Steal Your Joy. Learn more at TrishAhjelRoberts.com.