Collector at Heart — The Origins of a Lifelong Obsession
Some people are born knowing. Knowing what pulls them, what drives them, what fills them with purpose and delight. For me, that knowing was collecting—not in the impersonal sense of hoarding objects, but in the sacred act of curating stories through things. The first time I felt that electric thrill of discovery wasn’t in a jewelry store, but probably in my grandmother’s wooden drawer, rifling through brooches and buttons, caught somewhere between mischief and awe.
By the time I started my blog, Gem Gossip, in 2008, I had already begun piecing together what I now recognize as a life’s work. The blog was never just an online diary or a collection of pretty things. It was a mirror—a reflection of what it meant to treasure something deeply, to see value where others see clutter, and to make meaning from metal and stone.
In 2014, the Jewelry Collection Stories category was born, and with it, a door opened to other people’s worlds. I interviewed close to 40 collectors over the years, and each one revealed a unique window into the human psyche. Some sought historical resonance; others wanted whimsy or aesthetics. But all of them were motivated by the same heartbeat I recognized in myself: to hold something that holds them back. Back in time. Back in memory. Back in emotion.
To open a jewel box is to open a time capsule. To reach into a drawer and pull out a tangle of chains is to touch an era, a version of yourself. Jewelry, when collected with intention, becomes a biography in metal. And that is what I plan to tell here: not a catalog, but a life—lived in carats and charms.
Inherited Instinct — A Family Thread of Beauty and Belonging
Collecting wasn’t a choice I made. It was passed down through bloodlines, seeded in childhood, fertilized by family ritual, and bloomed through stories. My maternal grandmother lived in a cabin nestled deep in the woods, a place that felt like it had materialized from a fairytale or a 19th-century novel. There was no internet, no cable TV, just shelves and shelves of objects—tin boxes with worn labels, owl figurines staring out with frozen expressions, tea sets lined up like they were waiting for ghostly guests. There was comfort in that clutter, a sanctity in those silent archives.
Her home was like a museum of intention. Nothing was random. Everything told a story. And I remember how we’d sit with a cup of tea while she told me about where this trinket came from, or who had gifted that spoon, or how she’d bargained for a particularly strange item at a local estate sale. To her, each piece was a chapter. I absorbed this without realizing. The language of objects became my first second language.
On the other side of the family, my paternal grandmother—born in Italy and defined by elegance—expressed herself through gold. She didn’t collect broadly, but with a sense of heritage and prestige. Every trip to Italy returned with jewelry. Gold crosses, medallions, earrings that shimmered like the Mediterranean sun. She believed in adornment, not for vanity, but for memory. When she gave me my first piece of gold jewelry, it was not just a gift but an inheritance of tradition. She used to say, "Jewelry is the one thing you wear close to your skin and close to your soul." I think that sentiment etched itself into my DNA.
These women were wildly different, yet together they formed my compass. From one, I inherited the love of objects with backstory. From the other, the reverence for adornment as a kind of personal altar. Jewelry was not about trends—it was an emotional language. It said, "I remember you." It whispered, "I belong to someone." It shouted, "I survived."
Even the act of gifting jewelry in my family was layered with ritual. A necklace wasn’t just wrapped and handed over—it was an heirloom in the making, chosen with the idea that it would one day live beyond you. That’s how I received my baptismal medal, a delicately engraved oval pendant that still warms my palm with the memory of tiny fingers and childhood prayers. And it’s how I came to own my father’s St. Anthony pendant, given to me just before I left for college, like a talisman meant to guard me across state lines and emotional milestones.
The First Ring, the First Flame — Reclaiming My Personal Collection
I was about 11 years old when I bid on a ring on eBay—and won. It felt almost surreal, like sneaking into a grown-up world through a digital doorway. It was a tiny little thing, possibly not even real gold, but it sparkled just enough to catch my eye. That moment was my ignition point. I had discovered something intoxicating: you don’t need to wait for someone to gift you beauty. You can go find it yourself. You can choose it. You can claim it.
That ring, long since lost or buried beneath newer acquisitions, still lives on in my mind like a spark in dry grass. It started a fire that hasn’t gone out. Over the next fifteen years, I would become a true collector—not just of jewelry, but of stories, symbols, sentiments, and memory.
My collection is not vast in the sense of quantity. It is vast in meaning. Every piece serves as a timestamp, a freeze-frame in the film of my life. There’s a turquoise ring bought on a road trip through the Southwest, each mile of desert burned into the stone’s matrix. There’s a Victorian mourning locket, picked up on a rainy day in London, filled not with a photo but with imagination. And then there’s my mom’s first ring from my dad—tiny, simple, but profound—like a whisper you’ll never forget. That ring is proof that love doesn’t have to be elaborate to be eternal.
Many of these items remain unworn for months, sometimes years. But I never forget where they are. I can reach for them in the dark, like a blindfolded pianist returning to middle C. They are part of my inner mapping system. My jewelry armoire holds more than metal. It holds sighs, tears, laughs, and dreams.
Jewelry is funny that way. It allows you to hold onto something without tightening your grip. It gives you permission to be sentimental in a world that often rewards detachment. When I revisit pieces I haven't looked at in years, I'm surprised not by how much I've forgotten—but by how much I've remembered through them. They are not tokens. They are teachers.
I used to think that collectors were simply people who liked to possess. But now I know, collecting is a form of remembrance. A quiet rebellion against forgetting. In a world that tells us to move on, collectors say, "Wait. This mattered."
So here I am, years into a blog that has celebrated others and finally circling back to myself. This new chapter is not about self-indulgence. It’s about self-excavation. I am digging through decades, not to organize or inventory, but to make sense of my own emotional cartography. To understand how jewelry became my compass. How each clasp and stone was not just chosen, but chosen by the version of me that needed it most.
The Shape of Preference — An Untraditional Jewelry Identity
To understand the anatomy of a collector’s jewel box, one must begin with confession. Mine is simple: I don’t own a single ruby. That vivid red—a gemstone beloved by royalty and mythmakers alike—has never called to me. While rubies have graced the hands of queens and the chests of saints, their intensity feels foreign to my temperament. I’ve always leaned toward hues that whisper rather than shout. I gravitate to moonstone’s soft glow, the melancholic greys of antique diamonds, the steady calm of cornflower sapphires, and the quiet luster of buttery, aged gold. These are the tones of history, the colors of memory. They suit my internal world more than the theatrical dazzle of crimson ever could.
And then there’s my curious disinterest in earrings. For most collectors, earrings are a mainstay—a canvas for daily experimentation and creativity. But I’ve only ever needed one pair. I wear them every day like punctuation marks. Small, unchanging, familiar. I used to wonder if I should challenge myself to wear more, to diversify that part of my collection. But I’ve come to see the value in consistency. My minimal earring habit has become a signature, just as much as my devotion to rings. We all have areas in our aesthetic lives where we crave movement, and others where we crave stillness.
Watches, too, reveal more than time. I own two. One belonged to my grandfather, and the other was worn daily by my father during the 1980s—a decade shaped by quiet masculine strength and a sort of analog integrity. I wear his watch now, and it’s more than an accessory. It’s an inheritance of tempo. When I check the time, I feel the rhythm of his days pulsing through mine. The metal is worn just enough to remind me that it has survived boardrooms, storms, laughter, and long car rides. I never cared for high-end watches with polished facades and prestige branding. I care for stories told in nicks and scratches, for seconds that once ticked beside someone I love.
Our preferences, in jewelry and in life, act like mirrors. They reflect how we process beauty, how we interpret permanence, how we move through time. I’ve stopped apologizing for my disinterest in certain genres or styles. What I gravitate to—and what I let go of—is part of the collector’s philosophy. It’s not about accumulation. It’s about resonance.
Letting Go to Evolve — The Fluidity of a Growing Collection
Collections aren’t museums. They are living things. They change as we change, stretch to meet us as we grow, and sometimes shrink to make room for what matters more. In the past few years, I’ve let go of over 100 rings. Each departure was a little bittersweet—some were styles I had outgrown, others simply didn’t feel like me anymore. And still, my ring count sits around 250. That number doesn’t include my beloved baby rings—tiny, delicate things, most of which wouldn’t even fit a child today. I collect them for their whimsy, their scale, their sense of lost innocence.
To most, selling 100 rings would seem excessive. But for a collector, it’s an act of curation. Of refinement. When you collect not for profit, but for love, editing your collection becomes a ritual of rediscovery. It forces you to ask: what still holds meaning? What still moves me? What am I holding onto out of habit rather than joy?
Selling is not the opposite of collecting. It’s part of its evolution. You trade a Georgian cluster ring you no longer wear for a pendant you’ve dreamed about for years. You release a stack of Art Deco bands to make space for a single, bold Victorian snake ring. These are not losses. They are recalibrations. In truth, collecting is less about hoarding and more about having the courage to change shape without losing your essence.
More recently, I’ve fallen for charms. These tiny, symbolic trinkets offer something profound: memory in miniature. A charm doesn’t ask for attention—it simply exists, waiting for the right hand to recognize it. Charms tell stories in shorthand. A dog charm gifted after a pet’s passing. A locket engraved with initials that no longer belong to anyone living. A coin pendant made from a melted heirloom. These are not just adornments. They are relics of becoming.
Some charms I’ve even designed myself. I hand-selected stones at the Tucson Gem Show, a pilgrimage every collector should make at least once. I returned with treasures: sun-flecked citrines, foggy moonstones, and a piece of aquamarine that seemed to hold the color of every summer I’ve ever lived. I turned those stones into talismans. To wear them is to wear the landscape of a memory.
It’s funny—when we talk about jewelry, we often focus on the sparkle. But real collectors know it’s about the shadow too. The stories behind each piece are often tinged with longing, nostalgia, change. That’s what makes a jewel box a kind of diary. A quiet, glittering archive of everything we’ve been and everything we hope to become.
Resilience in Metal — Why Jewelry Endures When Everything Else Fades
We live in a world where everything feels temporary. Texts disappear. Emails get archived. Photos live on clouds we don’t own. Trends mutate faster than we can follow. It’s easy to feel untethered, like the ground beneath us is always shifting. And yet, inside a tiny velvet box, a ring made in 1905 still sparkles. Still survives. Still waits to be chosen again.
There is something radical about this kind of permanence. Something deeply human. Jewelry defies obsolescence. It doesn’t care about your Wi-Fi signal or your screen time. It just is. It exists to be worn, held, passed down. A piece of jewelry can travel through centuries—across wars, migrations, recessions, revolutions—and still carry the weight of someone’s love.
I often think about the hands that made my pieces. The anonymous craftsmen in workshops with poor lighting and aching backs, carving minute detail into gold with steady patience. The women who wore them, danced in them, maybe even cried into them. I think of the lovers who gave them as tokens, the widows who wore them in mourning, the children who found them in a mother’s drawer decades later. Each piece has its ghosts. And that is what makes collecting sacred. You are not just owning. You are remembering.
There’s a quiet defiance in wearing antique jewelry in the modern world. You’re choosing a slower narrative. One that doesn’t expire in a season. One that insists on context. You’re saying: I value what lasts. I see beauty not just in shine, but in scars. When I wear my most treasured rings, I don’t see perfection—I see endurance. A worn-down shank, a replacement stone, a slightly bent prong. These imperfections speak louder than any showroom sparkle ever could. They say: I’ve been through things. I’ve survived.
Jewelry doesn’t just connect us to the past. It anchors us in the present. Every time I open my jewel box, I’m reminded of who I am—not just today, but who I’ve always been. I am the girl who bid on a ring at 11. I am the teenager who wore a family medal during hard transitions. I am the adult who now buys jewelry not to impress, but to preserve.
To collect jewelry is to collect life. And through it, I’ve learned that permanence isn’t about possession. It’s about presence. About being fully here—with memory, with meaning, with mindfulness. Each piece I own is a breadcrumb in my personal myth. And I wear them not just to decorate myself, but to mark the path back to my own heart.
The Joy of the Hunt — Where Passion Meets Place
To be a collector is to live in a perpetual state of anticipation. You never know when a piece will appear—what dusty case, forgotten drawer, or offbeat website it might surface from. I’ve been asked many times: “Where do you find your jewelry?” And while the truthful answer is everywhere, the better answer is this—wherever beauty hides in plain sight.
My journey began in the digital corridors of eBay. I was barely a teenager, already entranced by antique jewelry, and endlessly curious about what people were selling. eBay became my classroom. I learned the nuance of descriptions, the deceit in cleverly staged photographs, the quiet power of reading hallmarks and trusting my instincts. I came to recognize the difference between the merely old and the truly timeless. A Victorian ring mislisted as costume. A mourning brooch ignored because its symbolism was misunderstood. These were my early wins—not because I outbid someone, but because I saw what others overlooked.
I also learned patience. Sometimes I would watch an item for days, even weeks. Hovering like a bird of prey, swooping in only when the time was right. I lost auctions too—many more than I won. But each loss sharpened my eye, my timing, and my resolve. Over time, I graduated from eBay to more refined digital markets. EBTH became a regular haunt. So did LiveAuctioneers and Invaluable. I developed bookmarks for small regional auction houses across the United States and abroad. I read auction catalogs like novels, imagining the lives of the people who had once worn the pieces.
It wasn’t about quantity. It was about connection. And some of the most significant pieces I’ve ever acquired weren’t the flashiest—they were the quiet survivors. A Georgian mourning ring with forgotten initials. A 19th-century padlock clasp, heavy with intention. A piece of paste jewelry so luminous it still steals the spotlight from diamonds. I didn’t set out to find these things. But they found me, because I was looking with the right eyes.
The best collectors are not just buyers. They are seekers, archivists, translators of emotion into object. We don’t just accumulate; we uncover. We ask the world to show us something rare—and when it does, we hold our breath and say yes.
Serendipity and Strategy — How Travel and Community Shape a Collection
As much as I owe to online platforms, some of the richest chapters of my collecting story were written with my feet on the ground, walking through open-air markets, antique stalls, and estate sales where time hangs thick in the air. If eBay taught me discipline, then Brimfield Market taught me joy. Nothing compares to the tactile wonder of seeing a ring shimmer in natural light, hearing the sound of gold chains slide across velvet, or negotiating over a price while the morning sun hits the vendor’s tent just right.
Markets like Brimfield in Massachusetts or Scotts in Atlanta are not just venues—they are worlds unto themselves. They have their own rhythm, their own dialect. At Portobello Road in London, I once stumbled upon a mourning brooch nestled inside an old leather suitcase, placed there not by design but by sheer accident. The vendor had inherited a box of costume jewelry and thought nothing of the gold-framed piece inside. It was 18th-century. Unmarked, yes—but unmistakably Georgian. That brooch didn’t shout. It hummed. And I heard it because I was listening.
This is the dance of serendipity. To walk into a flea market with no expectations and leave with a piece of your soul made visible. It happens not often—but enough to keep you searching.
Estate sales, too, have shaped my collection. There’s something hauntingly intimate about them. You’re sifting through a life, not just belongings. Sometimes the jewelry is displayed on kitchen counters next to dishes and Tupperware. Other times, you find it tucked into ziplock bags like afterthoughts. But every once in a while, you’ll open a box and find a jewel so imbued with spirit, you feel like you’ve met its original owner through it.
Travel has opened doors in unexpected ways. I’ve wandered into pawn shops on forgotten highways and found treasures mispriced because no one recognized their history. I’ve visited antique stores in small Southern towns, where the owners told me about customers who once walked in wearing the very pieces they now sold. Over the years, dealers have come to know me. Some message me directly when something comes in that "feels like Gem Gossip." That kind of relationship isn’t transactional. It’s earned through trust, enthusiasm, and shared reverence.
Jewelry shows, especially large-scale ones like the Miami Antique Show or the Las Vegas Antique Show, are sensory symphonies. Imagine row upon row of showcases—Victorian snake rings, Edwardian lavaliers, Art Deco bracelets—all sparkling under fluorescent lights. Dealers trading stories, collectors examining every millimeter of a setting. These shows are not just for buying. They’re for belonging. You hear the heartbeat of an entire subculture there.
And yet, even in all this noise, I practice restraint. I don’t chase trends. I don’t buy for clout. I buy because something shifts in me when I see the piece. It’s like falling in love—you know in an instant, even if it takes time to make the leap.
When Objects Choose You — The Philosophy of Letting Pieces Find Their Way
There’s a quiet wisdom to collecting that only becomes apparent after years of practice. It’s the understanding that sometimes the best pieces don’t come when you’re looking. They appear when you’re ready. You might spend a year hunting for a specific locket, only to find a ring that changes your entire trajectory. That is the paradox of the collector’s journey. You begin with intent, but you must always leave room for the unknown.
Some of my favorite pieces were never on a wish list. They weren’t on my radar. They just... appeared. A platinum Art Deco ring with an unusual blue enamel border. A rare memento mori skull ring offered to me by a dealer who remembered a conversation we had two years prior. These moments feel like fate wearing a gold shank. And it’s these unscripted encounters that make the collecting process feel almost spiritual.
There’s also power in waiting. I once saw a piece at an antique show that haunted me—a Victorian acrostic ring that spelled out “REGARD.” I didn’t buy it. The price wasn’t quite right, and I felt unsure. Two years later, that same dealer remembered me. The ring was still in his inventory, and this time it was meant to be mine. The delay had meaning. I wasn’t ready then. I was now.
Collectors often romanticize acquisition, but few speak of restraint. The discipline to say no—to let something pass you by, even when it’s beautiful—is a skill learned with time. You begin to sense that not every antique must belong to you to be appreciated. You can admire a piece deeply and still walk away. This is not about denying desire—it’s about cultivating discernment.
And when a piece truly belongs to you, you feel it. Not just in your fingers, but in your chest. It becomes part of your internal landscape. You don’t just wear it—you remember through it, feel through it, dream through it. A good piece of antique jewelry doesn’t just match your style. It mirrors your spirit.
Collecting, then, is not a race to amass, but a ritual of becoming. You don’t find jewelry. It finds you. You don’t just acquire pieces. You build meaning. One by one, these heirlooms whisper their way into your life, asking only to be held, honored, and passed on.
Morning Movements and the Pulse of Presence
There is a tempo to early mornings that resists easy categorization. Some days it is erratic and breathless, a sprint toward emails and obligations. Other days it is strangely still, imbued with a kind of hollow quiet that makes even your own footsteps sound foreign. Yet whether frenetic or meditative, there’s a silent choreography that unfolds. The brushing of teeth. The click of the kettle. The deliberation in front of the closet. These gestures may seem routine, but they are actually rituals of selfhood, repeated day after day, anchoring us in our bodies.
And then comes the act of adornment—not just as an afterthought, but as punctuation to the sentence you’re about to write with your day. Jewelry, in this intimate light, becomes more than style. It becomes presence. And not the kind of presence you perform for others, but the kind you cultivate within. When chosen instinctively and worn with intention, jewelry becomes an extension of your emotional frequency. It can ground you, invigorate you, shield you, even surprise you.
This is not about excess. You don’t need an overflowing drawer to make magic. In fact, fewer options often lead to deeper clarity. Like a poet who returns to the same fountain pen, or a chef who always reaches for a particular blade, the relationship between wearer and object is what elevates jewelry from accessory to artifact.
Begin, as always, with the hand. Select a ring that breaks symmetry, one that feels like it was sculpted by lava, moonlight, or memory. The appeal lies not in sparkle or polish but in form. Think of molten gold twisted into organic imperfection, catching light not with dazzle, but with depth. When you grip your coffee mug or adjust the collar of your coat, this ring becomes a companion—never loud, always present. Its curves mimic your breath. Its shape tells the world you do not move in straight lines. You are winding, human, whole.
A ring like this doesn’t finish an outfit. It begins it. It becomes the root from which the rest of your ensemble grows. It’s the exclamation that opens your narrative, not closes it. That, perhaps, is the secret truth of morning jewelry: it need not finish you; it needs only to start you.
Contrasts That Challenge and Complete
We often underestimate the wrist. Tucked into sleeves, hidden by movement, it becomes invisible. But that’s precisely what makes it so poetic. It is the site of touch—where lovers grasp hands, where parents hold children. It is the site of labor—where keyboards are tapped, notes scribbled, tools wielded. When you adorn the wrist, you are placing beauty in a place of function. And there is something radical in that gesture.
Choose a bangle that resists expectation. Not sleek or symmetrical, but imperfect and textural. Something that looks like it could have been carved from driftwood or sculpted from glass found at low tide. Consider recycled resin infused with sun-faded pigments, or salvaged wood softened into an oval form. The bangle doesn’t shout. It doesn’t need to. Its presence is felt when it brushes fabric, when it clinks softly against a desk, when it slides slightly as your arms rise to hail a taxi or wave goodbye.
Let this bangle be your contrast. Let it clash against the softness of a cashmere sweater or the structure of a crisp white blazer. Let it remind you that harmony doesn’t require sameness. Contrast is not conflict—it is chemistry. In a world that loves predictability, asymmetry is liberation. The bangle becomes a boundary-breaker, a shape that says: I am not made to fit in. I am made to stand apart.
And yet, it’s not rebellion for rebellion’s sake. It’s not about being different just to be noticed. It’s about truth. The truth that beauty doesn’t live in perfect edges or factory finishes. It lives in tension. In contradiction. In the spaces where wood meets gold, resin meets fabric, utility meets ornament. That’s the art of styling with soul. You allow your wrist to become a canvas for contradictions—gentle yet strong, worn yet radiant.
Let the bangle be your rebellion-in-motion. A reminder that even when you’re hurrying out the door, you still have the power to disrupt expectation. To be wild in the midst of the orderly. To wear something strange and sculptural, not because it completes the look, but because it completes you.
Necklaces as Echoes of Intuition and Intent
The throat is a gate. It is where your voice comes from. It is where vulnerability and strength converge. When we decorate the neck, we are adorning a very specific kind of power. We are tracing the line of breath, framing the sound of self.
Layering necklaces in the morning isn’t just a style choice—it’s an act of tuning. Like a musician adjusting strings or a dancer warming up, each piece you add to your neck is a note in your daily composition. The shorter piece, close to the clavicle, should carry meaning. Let it be the horn again. There is something ancient in its shape, something mythic. Horns have always symbolized strength, not brute but rooted—an inner stamina, an ancestral echo.
Pair it with a patterned top to give it contrast, let it sit bold against textures like linen or silk. This necklace isn’t background; it’s declaration. You’re not asking for its symbolism to be recognized. You’re allowing it to do its silent work.
Then layer downward. Let the second necklace fall longer, quieter. Here’s where your mystery lives. Choose a shape that resists literalism. An orb. A triangle. A fragment of key. Something that looks like it belongs in a novel, hidden in a drawer, left behind as a clue. These pieces are not there to be decoded. They are there to remind you that you do not owe the world your entire story. You can wear meaning without explanation. You can dress your memory without disclosing it.
This is where personal adornment becomes personal rebellion. In an era where everything is broadcast, shared, tagged, archived, choosing to wear jewelry that only you fully understand is an act of privacy, even poetry. The charm that grazes your chest is a secret, and in that secrecy lies power. When you feel its weight shift as you move, you’re reminded that you are not static. You are still changing. Still choosing.
Living Narratives — How Jewelry Chronicles Who We Are
Over the years, I’ve come to understand that collecting jewelry isn’t just about adorning the body—it’s about documenting the soul. My collection is not a static display of wealth or taste. It is a breathing archive of emotions, choices, and transitions. Every item I own, from the tiniest figas to the most elaborate mourning rings, exists as a breadcrumb leading back to a former version of myself. A girl who once believed in fairy-tale endings, a woman navigating loss, a creative spirit seeking meaning through ornament. My jewel box is my journal.
When I sift through these pieces, I don’t just remember where I bought them—I remember who I was at the time. A fragile optimism clings to some rings. Others carry a protective weight, like shields worn during uncertain seasons. I can recall the tension of certain decisions by touching the cold back of a locket. I can conjure the thrill of independence by slipping on a ring I bought with my first freelance paycheck.
These pieces are more than heirlooms-in-waiting. They are companions. They are guides. They have taught me about patience—waiting years for the right piece to appear. They’ve taught me about detachment—letting go of things I once thought I couldn’t live without. And most importantly, they’ve taught me that jewelry isn’t trivial. It is tender. It is spiritual. It’s the material memory we carry when everything else feels ephemeral.
In a world obsessed with clean slates and minimalist clarity, my collection stands as a layered, chaotic, imperfect truth. It reflects not who I want to be, but who I truly am.
Opening the Jewel Box — Sharing, Storytelling, and Connection
One of the most unexpected joys of collecting has been the way it connects me to people. What began as a solitary pursuit has expanded into a constellation of relationships—dealers, designers, fellow collectors, historians, artists, friends. Some of the most meaningful friendships I’ve made have been sparked by a shared admiration for a particular cut of diamond or a mourning ring with just the right font.
There’s a particular intimacy in talking about jewelry. Unlike other collections—books, stamps, ceramics—jewelry is personal in a tactile way. It touches the skin. It absorbs your temperature. It comes along for the most emotional moments of your life—marriages, births, deaths, goodbyes. So when you share a piece of jewelry with someone, you’re not just showing them a possession. You’re showing them a part of yourself.
Now, with the relaunch of Gem Gossip, I feel the tug to return to that spirit—but more personally this time. I’ve realized that my own stories deserve space too. That I can contribute not just as a curator of others’ narratives, but as a storyteller of my own. I want to revisit pieces from my collection one by one, not to boast, but to remember. To hold space for the moments they represent. To invite others to see not just what I wear, but why I wear it.