Delicate things aren’t meant for shelves

I never understood why people wait for special days to use the things they love.

I climbed cabinets, pulled out the finest cups, plated my meals like a masterpiece, as if I were both the artist and the honored guest.

Tea tasted different in every cup, and flowers belonged on my plate, not just in vases for someone else to admire.

Life was happening every day, so I lived it— not waiting for an occasion to make it feel special.

— Sadia Hakim

My mom never cared much for fancy dinnerware. She believed in keeping the delicate sets locked away, saved for guests and special occasions.

Our everyday crockery was nice—practical, sturdy, and functional—but I was never the kind to settle for just enough.

I would climb up the cabinet, reach for the untouched sets, and bring them down as if unveiling hidden treasures. Each day, I would plate my food like an artist, arranging it with care, as if I were competing on MasterChef.

I would drink tea from different cups throughout the day, savoring the way each one felt in my hands, as if the vessel itself could change the experience.

I decorated my platter with flowers, not because anyone was watching, but because it made the moment feel beautiful, as if I were on a quiet date with life itself.

I never understood why people lock away the things they love, waiting for special days that may never come.

Why must the finest plates, the delicate glasses, and the prettiest cups remain untouched, gathering dust for the approval of guests? Why do we treat ourselves as less deserving than the people we welcome into our homes?

Life is happening now. Every meal, every sip of tea, every quiet moment alone—it all deserves to be adorned with care.

I never needed a special occasion to make life feel special. I simply chose to live it that way.

Why do we keep the things we love locked away, waiting for someone or something special to justify their worth?

Why do we wait for the right moments or the right people to arrive, as if their presence alone grants us permission to embrace what was always ours?

These things, meant to be used, to be lived with, remain sealed away—left to gather dust behind closed doors, waiting for a purpose they were already made for. As if joy needs permission, as if life itself isn’t reason enough.

— Sadia Hakim // Letters Unsent