Meik Wiking

I want to start this article by sharing an email exchange I had with The Happiness Museum.

I visited them more than a year ago after discovering the museum through the Happiness Research Institute—specifically from Meik Wiking, the author of The Art of Making Memories. After the visit, I purchased some books from the museum and asked if they had any stamps I could use to mark the books as a keepsake of my visit. I believe that’s also part of the art of memory-making—something tangible to remind us of where we’ve been.

They mentioned they didn’t have one at the time, but it was a lovely idea to consider.

Once I returned home, I felt an urge to email them to ask if they planned to introduce stamps—especially since I had seen similar stamps at other bookstores in Europe. But time passed, and I didn’t follow through. Months later, while rereading Meik Wiking’s book, I finally sent the email. To my delight, they replied that they now have the stamps at the museum! I don’t know if it was because of others like me who asked, or just their own evolution—but I was genuinely happy to hear it. Now I can’t wait to revisit.

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As for the book itself, I love his sense of humor and his ability to cherish the little things. I admire Marie Kondo’s philosophy on decluttering, but I must admit—it sometimes feels painful to let go of sentimental items. While there’s no right or wrong, reading Meik’s book helped me feel reassured: I’m not wrong for keeping things that hold memories. It gave me a good excuse to keep collecting.

His writing is filled with positive words and energy, explaining how creating and preserving happy memories benefits our mental well-being. It’s an easy, uplifting read—perfect for a leisurely day. Simple, he made me happy, with his book.

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I’ve always loved this lifestyle, even as a child, though I didn’t know what to call it until now.

Back then, I saved every little memory from someone I loved—Xmas cards from school, receipts and gifts from dating time, keepsakes from two months volunteering in a Thai school, and now, treasures from life with my son. I’m building a memory box for him to open when he turns 18: full of love from my pregnancy, his first clothes, his first painting, and all the “firsts” we share. I’ve also started recollecting my travel memories.

I don’t keep a travel journal—partly due to time, and partly because I’m lazy when it comes to writing, painting, or pasting things into a paper diary. Instead, I make wooden memory boxes for each place I visit, filled with coins, magnets, bills, maps, and other small items. Sadly, I didn’t keep much from earlier trips, so for now, I only have three boxes:

• Czech
• Portugal
• Sweden: Abisko

But I plan to create many more—and collecting country stamps is still my top priority!

Whenever I consider buying something while traveling, I ask myself: Will this help me create a happy memory? If the answer is yes, I’ll buy it. The same goes for experiences: Is this something I’ll want to remember forever? If yes, I’ll go for it.

A promise to myself: while I usually travel based on intuition and don’t do deep research, Estonia will be different. If I can go in autumn season, I want to prepare thoughtfully—maybe even plan a trekking or hiking trip. And of course, create a special wooden box for it.

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Building my own blog or website is another way to preserve these memories.

“Some days we remember because they were sad. They are part of our human experience, part of our memory, and part of what makes us who we are.”

There’s a small memory exercise in the book that I haven’t completed because I can’t quite recall the specific moment yet—but maybe that means I need to create it. Still, I found an old note I wrote a year ago, which made me smile:

Which memory comes to mind when I say:

• Sunset
  “The 7 Hanging Valleys Trail tour, watching the sunset before dinner with the host and strangers. It was the warmest, most romantic dinner I’ve had.” The host even said it was one of the most beautiful sunsets he’d ever seen. Of course, I wished I could’ve shared it with someone I love.
• Snow
  “The first photo S. sent from his town, in the bottle that landed on my island.” That’s what I wrote last year.
  But today, the word “snow” reminds me of “my first day in Älmhult—stepping off the train, and it started snowing. It was the first snowfall I had ever experienced.” It didn’t snow that much last year, so it felt magical, as if my wish came true.

It helps me see that we can reshape our memories — by creating new, and beautiful ones to hold onto.

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Writing down these memories surprises us in unexpected ways. They help us return to joyful moments and carry us through the hard ones.

I will continue creating happy memories for myself and for my son—so that whatever words we see or hear—“car,” “shoes,” “school,” “home,” “strawberries,” “fish,” or “bag”—they’ll spark a memory, and bring us joy.

Thank you.