Use the Good Dishes

Stop Saving and Start Savoring

Over the last few years, Mickey and I have been quietly unraveling the life we thought we were supposed to live. Slowly and deliberately, we’ve been shedding everything that no longer resonates or sparks joy—clothes, decor, furniture, even old gaming systems. (Fear not, my N64 is safe!) We’ve shifted rooms, reimagined the flow of our home, carved out space not just to exist, but to actually live. Letting light, air, and intention spill freely through every corner.

And in all this purging, we keep stumbling on things we were “saving” for someday. Anyone else inherit this idea? The unspoken rulebook of not yet, passed down like fine china itself. I grew up in a house where fancy soap was for guests, beautiful dinnerware that was strictly for staring at, never for eating off of, and our “nice clothes” were off-limits for school.

It was never said outright, but the message was clear: save the best for later. Wait until you’ve earned it. Don’t use the good towels on an ordinary Monday. Don’t light the candle unless company’s coming. We were taught to protect beauty from everyday life, as if joy could run out. As if we might waste it by using it too soon.

But somewhere along the way, I started wondering what all that saving was really for? We were preserving beauty, but never letting it actually touch us. Tucking delight away for a future moment more deserving than the one we were currently standing in. What if that moment never comes? What if the saving is what steals the sweetness in the first place?

So lately, we’ve started saying: fuck the rules.

The luxury candles I hoarded away like dragon treasure, the crystal glasses gathering dust, the handcrafted servingware tucked away: we’re finally using them. We light the candles because we want to. For real, who doesn’t want their house to smell like a luxury mountain resort? We sip White Russians from Waterford while meal prepping because, yes, we feel delightfully fancy. We eat chocolate chip cookies on handcrafted dessert plates while we watch Brooklyn 99. Because…why the heck not?

And what I’m discovering in these small, deliberate acts of delight is simple: life doesn’t need a reason to feel special. Joy isn’t solely reserved for milestones, invitations, or someone else’s approval. It’s already here, in the little luxuries we’ve been saving for “someday.” We just have to let ourselves have it. So I wrote a freeverse poem about it. Consider this your permission slip to finally use the good dishes

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Use the Good Dishes

Use the good dishes.
The ones that whisper “special occasion,”
that wait for guests who may never come,
for occasions that never quite arrive.
Let breakfast feel like a treat,
while you sip lemonade from a stemmed glass.

Wear the outfit that makes you sway when you walk,
that makes you feel like poetry in motion.
Adorn yourself, not for eyes that watch,
but for the quiet thrill of knowing you’re worth adorning.

Light the candle.
Not for romance, not for ceremony,
but because the flicker is reason enough.
Let the scent of teakwood and mahogany
remind you that being alive is, itself,
an event worth celebrating.

We’ve been taught to wait.
To save things. To earn things.
To prove our worth before we savor fully,
before we pour the good wine,
before we let joy come all the way in.

But joy was never meant to be rationed.
It’s meant to be worn, sipped, spilled, lived.
It’s meant to gather on your fingertips
and shimmer in the air around you.

Turn the pages of the book you’ve been shelving,
tracing each word with fingers unhurried.
Let the story wrap around you like a blanket—
soft, familiar, a borrowed dream.
Because stepping into another world
is a ceremony of its own.

Dance in the kitchen to music that makes your soul sway.
Stir the sauce, tap your foot, sing too loud.
Laugh at your own improvisation.
Let movement be your prayer,
your confession, your celebration,
a quiet rebellion against the waiting.

Let tacos glow beneath candlelight on a Tuesday.
Drink from the crystal goblet because it catches the sun just so.
Luxuriate in the expensive chocolate as if it were communion.
Steep the fancy tea because you are worth the ritual.
This is the moment—this breath, this bite, this small, sacred now.

So use the good dishes.
Not because life is short,
but because you are sacred.
Because delight is your birthright.
Because joy doesn’t need a reason
to belong to you.

Intentionally,
Shan