The Value Beyond the Shine

The earth whispered in her ears:

"Do not seek only that which gleams. For the truest treasures are those that have endured the seasons, whose worth is not lost, but transformed.”

This message did not arrive with the vibrance and brassiness that would be impossible to miss. Instead, it was delivered in a more muffled and subdued manner that felt a bit worn and weathered. There are moments in life when one must be open to receive the gentle whispers that often are not audible to the ears, yet they find alternate paths to resonate the spirit. These are not ordinary moments; they are invitations. Invitations to remember something beneath the surface of our names, our roles, our routines, our desires and our soul.

I was drawn to several scarred and discarded trinkets that laid scattered beneath my feet. On the surface, they carried a curious wonder and stories of unknown time and distance.But I thought. What was the "real" message lying here just beneath the surface of my feet?

A small offering—not polished, not proud, but undeniably pure. It was an offering that spoke with honest truth and a profound, almost ancient, purpose. One by one, they appeared: penny, penny, penny, nickel — eight cents of quiet wisdom scattered like breadcrumbs across my path. They blended perfectly into their resting place, camouflaged against the earth’s worn textures, unseen and ignored by the hurried eye. It was not their shiny flair that caught my attention, but the very absence of it.

As I cradled the tattered and shabby coins in my hand, I thought of the moments in my own life where I too had lost my sheen — dreams weathered by time, love that endured loss, and hope that stumbled but never broke. Grief has been by long-standing companion of mine. It broke me open, shattered my delusions, and stripped away everything false: my illusions of control, my comfort of permanence, and even the identity that I had clung onto like a bird to its feathers because it was familiar and safe. In that emptying, or release, something new emerged. It was a kind of light, a deeper presence and a tender truth.

Grief doesn’t follow a straight line. It hides in the folds of everyday life, shows up in unexpected moments, and waits, quietly, for us to be ready. I guess I wasn’t ready—not really—until now some 20+ years later. Each loss in my life etched a different kind of wound on my heart.

I was a 20-something young girl just starting my life as an independent woman. Started a career, settling into life on the fly and beginning a relationship with the one I would say "I do."

Then, came the suddenness of my mother’s passing. One night, after sharing a simple, mother-daughter evening—dinner, shopping, and the ordinary beauty and simplicity of presence and togetherness, my world began to shift. Just a few hours later, I was racing to a hospital I never expected to enter that night only to be told she was gone. No goodbyes. No preparation. Just… absence. My last words to her, so casual at the time, now feel sacred.

I’ve replayed that final sight of her so many times, sensing even then that something was shifting. I sat motionless. I couldn’t pull myself away until she was inside and no longer visible to my eye. I wonder now if my soul already knew what my mind and heart was on the brink of finding out.

The song Bridge Over Troubled Water played softly in the background as her life support was removed. That sound, paired with the silence that followed, will never leave me. It still lives in a quiet corner of my mind as a lullaby of letting go.

My beloved husband of just 13 years left this world in a way that still feels unfinished. The illness moved fast and slow all at once. One moment, we were hoping for more time. The next, I was facing the shock of his final breath taken without me beside him. I carried guilt like a second skin: for not being there in the final hours, for wondering if I had done enough, said enough, loved enough, and been enough.

The truth I’ve come to sit with is this—I did love him, with all my heart, as best that I could with what I knew at the time, and that love, imperfect and real, was enough.

I had developed an unbreakable bond with my father after my husband died. I watched how he had bravely persevered after losing his own mother and his forever love prematurely and unexpectantly. I saw his strength even though he never let out his pain (at least not openly) as he reconfigured the life that he had known. He lived the life I never expected to follow.

Two years after losing my husband, it happened. The unthinkable. My father’s death was a different kind of ache. It was not sudden, not swift—but a slow, agonizing unraveling. A man so full of life, of strength, slowly faded before my eyes. His body remained, but the essence of him—the sharp mind, the quiet wisdom—began to slip away after his injury, until Alzheimer’s dimmed the rest. I lost him in pieces. Every visit felt like grieving someone who was still alive. There was no clear line, no final word. Just the very long goodbye.

Back to those little coins. The external surfaces were dull and rough; appearing corroded by the countless touches, journeys, and forgotten pauses. They were far from polished and their appearance had lost its radiance, but they did not try to hide. They may not have sought my attention, yet for some unknown reason, I could not look away. As if the universe was quietly muttering:

“Not all value is found in what’s polished and easy to see.Sometimes the greatest treasures are those weathered by time, hardships and unseen struggles.”

The power of 8

Eight is known to vibrate with infinity, abundance, balance, and endless cycles of flow and regeneration. A reminder that even through the corrosion of time life continues, it reshapes and it renews. The gradual yet deliberate appearance of these coins, one by one, suggested a message of patience, trusting the unfolding process, letting go, and recognizing the beauty and worth beyond appearance especially during times of change and uncertainty.

Letting go does not mean severing or even forgetting. It means to surrender and trust the return of something lost with something better. It is not something that can be chased or captured or even controlled. It is simply carrying on with a sacred empty space, and the knowing, that in the right time, it will be filled again.

So, I gathered the coins gently into my hand as a softened reminder that beauty is not always coated in brilliance and luminosity, and value is not always brass and bold. Some gifts are wrapped underneath a worn, weathered, weary mask as proof of the unrealized truth of a full and abundant life worthy of gratitude and blessings still to come.

Tucking the worn coins into my pocket, I realized: There are parts of me, too, that long to be seen. Not polished to perfection. Rather wholly, radiantly, beautifully and enduringly enough.

Perhaps this message has been following me like a shadow for some time as a gentle whisper too soft to hear above the clamor of a world enamored by shine.Until now.

Finally, I received the message.

I acknowledge it.

I accept it.

And now, I grant myself permission to step fully into my light and shine.

Just then, the Earth spoke up once more:

"Treasure is not always what you expect. Sometimes it wears a disguise to see if your heart will recognize it.”