But not me.

I give because I feel something, and that something refuses to stay inside.

If you tell me you like my bracelet, there’s a good chance it’ll be yours by nightfall.

Not because I want anything in return.

Not because I’m trying to dazzle you.

Simply because: why not?

Why should I hold onto something if it could light up your face?

This isn’t performance.

It’s not strategy.

It’s impulse; deep, unfiltered, bone-level knowing: You’d love this.

And that’s enough.

I Translate Feeling into Object

I don’t always have the words.

Emotions, for me, come with heat, but not always shape.

They bloom, sudden and fierce, like weather systems in my chest.

When I feel affection, appreciation, or connection, it bubbles up until I have to do something with it.

So I do what I know.

I give.

A book I’ve read and loved. A scarf that made someone smile. A trinket, a treat, a tiny surprise.

It’s not about value, it’s about translation.

Turning the abstract into the tangible.

“You made me feel something, and this is what that looks like outside my body.”

It’s not gifting. It’s witnessing.

Yet … Not Everyone Knows How to Receive

Sometimes, people stiffen.

They say, “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly take that.”

Their eyes dart. Their smile falters.

My gift, meant as a ribbon of joy, lands like a challenge. A disruption. Even a threat.

That used to confuse me. Now, I understand:

True generosity is unnerving.

We live in a world where almost everything is paid for.

Where kindness hides barbs.

Where the giving often comes with a receipt.

So when I hand someone something, unasked, unexpected, with no strings, they don’t always know what to do.

And that’s okay.

No Regrets. Not One.

I’ve given away things that mattered to me.

Books with marginalia. Clothes I loved. Even heirlooms, items laced with memory.

And I’ve never regretted a single one.

Because what I’m really giving is presence.

The object is a conduit.

What I want to say, through it, is simple:

I see you. I care. I want your life to have more light in it.

Sometimes that message lands. Sometimes it doesn’t.

I give anyway.

A Quiet Kind of Power

Let’s be honest: giving can be a kind of power.

Not dominance, but expansion.

A way of leaving a piece of yourself in someone else’s world.

A way to become part of the architecture of their life.

It’s intimate. Vulnerable.

And sometimes, yes, too much.

But I’d rather be too much than too little.

I’d rather give awkwardly than hold back out of fear.

I’d rather live in a world of shared beauty than hoarded safety.

I Give Because It’s How I Say I’m Here

Maybe I’ll never stop.

Maybe I don’t want to.

Maybe the world needs more unasked-for gifts, more small, strange kindnesses that ask nothing and mean everything.

So if you’re ever near me, and you say you like what I’m wearing, don’t be surprised if I say, “Take it.”

Not because I’m trying to impress you.

But because, in that moment, giving it to you is how I say:

I’m alive.
You’re here.
This is real.
Let’s make it beautiful.