The Ring I Thought I Lost Forever

Flying down to the Gorge for Labor Day weekend to see the Dave Matthews Band, with just an hour left in the flight, it happened. I was fiddling with the ring on my hand—the first ring I ever made for myself in my jewelry journey, a wild horse turquoise piece that meant the world to me. In a blink, it slipped off my finger and disappeared.

I froze.

Edwin and I searched everywhere. We shook out the sweatshirt I’d been sitting on, pulled up the seat cushions, and crawled around on the floor. The people around us helped too, moving their bags and checking the space beneath their seats. I even walked to the back of the plane, showed the flight attendant (who I knew) a picture of my ring, and asked her to let me know if anyone turned it in.

But it was gone.

 

By the time the plane landed, the weight of it all had set in. The flight attendants and I got down on our hands and knees, searching row after row, every nook and cranny—those gross little spaces no one ever wants to touch. Nothing.

And in that moment, I knew. The minute I stepped off that plane, the ring would be gone forever. A piece of me would be gone with it. I felt tears welling up, the ache of knowing I would never see it again. Because this wasn’t just any ring. This was the one I made for myself. The one I kept. A piece that held the beginning of my journey as a jeweler. A piece that carried my story.

We left the airport in silence and drove three and a half hours to the Gorge. I barely spoke, carrying the heaviness with me, and then stepped into a weekend of music and celebration. My sweatshirt sat in the rental car while I tried to enjoy the concerts. And I did, music carried me, but beneath it all, the empty finger was a reminder.

When the weekend was over, we packed up, drove back to Seattle, and returned the rental car. I tied my sweatshirt back around my waist, loaded up the bags, and headed toward the shuttle. The closer we got to the airport, the more the sadness returned. I had lost something I could never replace.

And then, after security, as we collected our bags, it happened.

I tied the sweatshirt at my waist again, slid my hands into the pockets…and felt something. My heart stopped.

No. It couldn’t be.

I said, “Edwin.” Slowly, I pulled it out. And there it was. My ring.

 

 

The ring we had searched for in every possible place. The ring I thought was gone forever. The ring that had been with me all along.

We both stood there in disbelief, smiling like fools in the middle of the airport. I slid it back on my finger and felt this wave of relief, gratitude, and awe.

As we boarded our flight home, I looked out the window with the ring back on my hand. This time, instead of heaviness, I felt whole again. The piece that had been missing was finally back where it belonged.

And in that moment, I was reminded why jewelry holds so much meaning for us. It’s not just silver and stone. It’s not just adornment. Jewelry carries our stories. It holds our beginnings, our memories, our worth.

That ring had walked with me through an entire weekend of loss and return, of letting go and finding again. And when I slipped it back on, it felt like more than a piece of jewelry—it felt like coming home.

This is why I create. To make pieces that don’t just sit pretty on your dresser, but become part of you. Pieces that carry your story, remind you of your strength, and stay with you through every twist and turn.

Because when you find yourself holding onto jewelry that means something, you’re not just wearing it. It’s wearing with you.

Flying home with my ring back on my hand, right where it’s meant to be. Happy as ever.