The Moment I Remembered I Deserve Beautiful Things

Somewhere between the night shifts, the caregiving, the endless lists, and the quiet moments where I poured my whole heart into everyone else, I forgot I was allowed to have something beautiful. Not extravagant. Not loud. Just something that felt like mine—a small reminder that the woman behind the responsibilities still exists.

I didn’t learn this in a self-help book. I learned it in the hallway of a rehab unit.

A patient’s wife sat beside her husband’s wheelchair, exhausted and devoted, holding his hand with the kind of love that survives storms. She wore a simple gold necklace—nothing flashy, nothing dramatic. But the way she touched it as she talked to him grounded her. It connected her to the part of herself she refused to lose.

I remember thinking: She is tired, grieving, hopeful, terrified—and she still knows she deserves something beautiful.

That moment stayed with me long after my shift ended.

Caregivers don’t hold on to beautiful things for vanity. We hold on to them to remember ourselves. To whisper, “You’ve survived so much. Don’t disappear now.”

I didn’t buy my diamond earrings today. I bought them months ago in Boston.

I was travel nursing then—living alone in a city that didn’t know my name, carrying responsibility that didn’t leave room for anything soft. I walked past a small jewelry boutique on a cool afternoon and saw a pair of diamond earrings in the window.

They weren’t extravagant. They weren’t meant to impress anyone. But something in me reached for them.

Not because I needed them. Not because I was celebrating anything. But because, for the first time in a very long time, a quiet voice inside whispered: You deserve things too.

Standing there alone in Boston—tired, resilient, homesick, overworked—I realized how rarely I chose anything just for myself. How easily I convinced myself that beauty could wait. How often I let my worth slip behind the needs of everyone else.

So I bought them. Not as a luxury, but as a lifeline. A promise that I wouldn’t forget who I was behind the scrubs, behind the caregiving, behind the strength everyone relies on.

Even now, when I put them on, they take me back to that moment in Boston—the moment I finally admitted to myself that my needs matter too.

I’ve only had my hearing aids for two weeks, and I’m still adjusting to them. Some days I feel self-conscious; some days I forget they’re even there. But when I put my earrings on beside them, something softens in me. One is necessity. One is beauty. One keeps me connected to the world; the other keeps me connected to myself. And maybe that’s the quiet truth I needed to learn—that I can honor what I need without losing what makes me feel whole.

The earrings aren’t loud or flashy. They’re soft, elegant, quietly powerful—the way many strong women are. When they catch the light, I don’t see jewelry. I see a woman who fought through exhaustion and kept showing up. A woman who lived alone in a city and didn’t break. A woman who is still learning that she deserves softness, beauty, and things that make her feel like herself again.

Sometimes luxury isn’t about the item at all. It’s about reclaiming the parts of yourself you set aside while caring for everyone else.

These earrings are my reminder that I won’t disappear into my responsibilities again. That I’m allowed to shine. That strength deserves something beautiful too.

If pieces with meaning speak to you the way they spoke to me, I’ve shared a few of my favorites in my resources on my Resources I Love Page.