There’s always been a scented candle sitting on the shelf in my bedroom.
It’s housed in a thick glass jar, with an elegant cream-colored label, and it smells like the lobby of a luxury hotel, freshly sun-dried sheets, and a sophisticated woman who never forgets her dental cleaning appointments.
Simply put, it smells a lot like the kind of person I’ve always wanted to be—but haven’t quite become yet.
I’ve had this candle for several months now.
Over the past few months, I’ve picked it up countless times, opened the lid, taken a deep sniff, and then carefully put it back where it belongs.
Why haven’t I lit it yet?
Because I’ve been waiting for a special occasion.
Clearly, an ordinary Tuesday night isn’t special enough.
Even though I replied to over a dozen emails today, finally folded the laundry that had been piling up for three days, and remembered to finish my coffee before it went completely cold, it still doesn’t seem worthy of this candle.
A weekend morning isn’t special enough.
Having friends over for dinner isn’t special enough either.
Finishing a task I’d been putting off for ages still feels like it’s just not quite enough.
Maybe it’s waiting for a sudden visit from a member of the royal family.
But if a royal really did come to my house, my first concern wouldn’t be the candle—it would be the pile of shoes by the door and why there are three different flavors of mustard in the fridge at the same time.
But we really do love doing this.
We save our nice tableware for when guests come over.
An expensive body lotion I can’t bring myself to open.
A favorite piece of clothing that’s been hanging in my closet all this time because I’m afraid it’ll get worn out.
That restaurant I’ve wanted to visit for ages—I’m saving it for our anniversary.
My favorite red lipstick—I’ll save it for an important event.
We’re always saving our joy for the future.
Until the house is tidied up.
Until work isn’t so hectic.
Until I lose a little weight.
Until I have more money, more time, more confidence—or until life finally stops being such a chaotic mess.
The problem is, “someday” is a very unreliable date.
A while back, I found a silk scarf buried deep in a drawer.
When I bought it, I thought it was absolutely gorgeous. But when I actually saw it again, my first feeling wasn’t delight—it was regret.
Why hadn’t I ever worn it?
I owned something beautiful, yet I’d never truly let it become a part of my life.
That afternoon, I tied the scarf around my neck and wore it to the supermarket.
Of course, the supermarket isn’t exactly a fashion-forward setting.
The woman picking out avocados didn’t pay much attention to my scarf either.
But I did.
I felt a little more lively, and I even walked with a slightly straighter posture than usual.
In that moment, I suddenly realized that beautiful things aren’t worth using just because a particular moment is special enough.
Sometimes, it’s precisely because you use them that an ordinary moment becomes special.
A pretty plate can be used to serve scrambled eggs.
Your favorite perfume can be sprayed while working from home.
That dress you’ve been saving for a special occasion can be worn to an ordinary lunch.
And that expensive candle can be lit while you’re lying in bed reading a book.
Happiness doesn’t need an audience.
Nor does it need to be scheduled in advance.
So tonight, I’ve decided to light that candle.
No party, no elaborately set table, and no one will be there to applaud just for that.
I’ll probably still be wearing my old pajamas, and the dishwasher next to me might be making a sound that’s anything but romantic.
But that’s okay.
An ordinary night is also a part of my life.
And my life itself is the special occasion I’ve been waiting for all along.
Go ahead and light that candle you’ve been saving for a special moment.