everything breaks, eventually

how beauty lives in use, not preservation

There’s a Joan Didion quote I return to often—like a rosary bead in a pocket, rubbed smooth by repetition. An interviewer once asked her about her aesthetic sensibilities, noting she had talked about using good silver every day. Didion replied simply: “Well, every day is all there is.”

I think about this when I spritz the drugstore body spray and leave the expensive perfume untouched, as if I am not occasion enough. I think about it when I let the candles collect dust or when I fold the linen napkins back into the drawer instead of setting them on the table, even when I’m eating takeout. When I catch my reflection and think, not today. I’ll wear that dress on a better day. A more deserving day.

But what is a better day, exactly?

We treat joy like something that needs to be earned. Something we’ll get to, eventually, once the inbox is cleared, once we’ve become the improved version of ourselves, once there’s a reason. We hoard our pleasures like wartime sugar, waiting for a day that’s shinier, neater, more worthy.

But every now and then, something slices through that mindset. A Didion quote. A really good strawberry. A sunset on an ordinary evening. The weight of a heavy fork in my hand that reminds me I’m here. That this—this—is the day.

I’m not arguing for a life of excess. I’m not saying we need to light a Diptyque candle for every frozen pizza night. But I am saying reverence matters. The good silver isn’t about luxury. It’s about attention. It’s about presence. It’s about saying, with our choices: This moment counts, because I’m in it.

There’s a sort of holiness in that, really. The act of making the mundane beautiful. The refusal to sleepwalk through your one and only life. Why not now? Why not me?

I’m also reminded of that episode of Friends—yes, I’m going from Joan Didion to Monica Geller, stay with me—where Chandler convinces Monica to use their wedding china for Thanksgiving. It’s a big moment. Monica kept it protected from the chaos of real life because they were expensive and delicate and meaningful. But it’s the holidays. Her chosen family is gathered around the table. She takes the risk.

Of course, the plates get broken. Because this is Friends, and chaos is contractually obligated.

But maybe that’s the point.

Beauty is a risk. Living is a risk. And using the good silver is, in some small way, a vote of confidence in both.

Everything breaks. Candles melt. Silver tarnishes. People leave. That’s just the fine print of being alive. We don’t preserve what we love by locking it away—we preserve it by using it. By wearing it. By letting it breathe. By loving it so thoroughly it’s left with our fingerprints.

I once heard someone say that the opposite of scarcity isn’t abundance—it’s enough. Enough to pour the good wine on a Monday night. Enough to send the sappy text. Enough to wear the dress, use the plates, light the candle. Enough to live, not just plan to.

I have to remind myself of this constantly. I want to be the woman who doesn’t flinch at beauty. Who doesn’t apologize for pleasure. Who wears perfume to the grocery store and sets the table for herself and buys tulips in January, even when the sky is grey.

Because every day is all there is. Not in a tragic way, but in a clarifying one. It’s not meant to scare you. It’s meant to wake you up.

So use the good silver. Say what you mean. Wear the thing. Don’t wait.

You’re not wasting it.

You’re living.

And isn’t that the whole point?

xo,

liv

P.S. Life’s too short for scratchy towels and boring underwear. You know what to do.