Secret 7

April 13, 2026

Writer: Eve Collon

Editor: Sonia Walke

I’m always chasing the high of my childhood. I haven’t found anything yet that matches the feeling of wandering through my neighborhood with muddy feet until the sun went down or climbing trees without worrying which branch would scratch me next. Those moments felt endless, untouched by pressure or distraction. Still, there is something about a simple game of cards that brings me back to what I loved most about those late neighborhood nights: being completely present. With nothing else to dwell on, the game becomes its own world: a unique rhythm of simplicity is felt.

Before social media and online shopping, I was entertained by the little things. My grandpa cutting the deck—signaling the start of a new game—captivated me. The sound of the cards snapping together and the deliberate way he placed the deck in front of me made everything else fade into the background. I knew that for the next twenty minutes, at least, my only focus was whether my next card would beat his. There was no rush to be anywhere else, no reason to check a screen—just the quiet thrill of the game and the comfort of sitting across from him. 

Over time, my Rolodex of card games grew with me, each one carrying a memory of connection and quiet anticipation. Card games became more than just a pastime; they were a language of closeness, a way to share time and space without life’s responsibilities. Eventually, a close friend introduced me to a game called Secret 7. At first, it felt like just another addition to the list, but it quickly became something more.

The number seven had always meant something to me. It was my grandpa’s lucky number and something he mentioned often, whether he was shuffling cards or telling stories. Over time, it softly became mine too. So when I learned a game centered around that same number, it felt oddly familiar—like a continuation of something that had started long before.

For me, Secret 7 became more than just my favorite game. It was uninterrupted time with the people I loved most, a way to cut out the never-ending distractions of the outside world, and now, a portal back to my childhood. It became a vessel of safety and genuine fun. Like me, everyone I share this game with, in some way, reconnects with the parts of their childhood they loved most. Nobody watches the clock, and nobody flips their phone over to check for notifications. The only concern is who might secretly have the lowest hand at the table. Time passes, competition builds, and laughter is shared.

In those moments, I recognize the same feeling I had sitting across from my grandpa years ago. It’s not just about the cards themselves, but about the simplicity of being fully present with the people around you. That’s the feeling I’ve been chasing: the one that doesn’t come from anything you can buy or scroll through, but from shared time and genuine connection.

It’s a privilege to share that sense of innocence and authenticity, so whenever I get the chance to teach someone a game that brings out my friendly competitive side, I’m chomping at the bit. In a small but meaningful way, it feels like passing something on, like cutting the deck and starting a new game all over again.