“When It’s Gone When It’s Gone” - my dad

I’m starting to feel like everything I write needs a disclaimer.
This is about me, not about you.
I can’t control your reaction to it, and I mean no offense.
I’m just learning about myself—and sometimes, the people around me become teachers whether they know it or not. 

The Shilajit Incident 

The moment that hit me most recently? Shilajit. 

I bought a small “room service jar” size for $73 after seeing a woman on TikTok (a beautiful creator @madisonvandereb) talk about how it was part of her up-leveling routine. It’s meant to be taken in tiny doses—just a half pea-sized amount in warm water, as needed. 

Since I like to give things the respect they deserve, I’ve been treating it with some care. I put mine in a small decorative bowl, take it outside, and sip it while sitting in the grass. The ceremony gives me pause and purpose. It’s not just about the supplement—it’s about how I show up for myself. 

Then, a few days later, I walk into the kitchen, and my husband Glenn had just scooped some out and popped it in his mouth. No water, no moment, no pause. Just tossed it in like peanut butter. 

My stomach dropped. 

Not only did it feel sacred to me… it wasn’t cheap. And I felt it in my gut:
That’s too expensive to just throw in your mouth. 

I didn’t say anything in the moment. Glenn, to be fair, would gladly share anything with me. He’s generous like that. (Though he is the type who orders something at dinner and then likes your meal better.) 

The Reflection Begins 

Later, I started asking myself—why did this bother me so much? 

Answer #1: My upbringing. 

We were what I would call upper middle class. We weren’t lacking—but I felt like we couldn’t afford things. If that makes sense. My dad had this habit: if he brought home ice cream or cookies (which was rare), he’d say, “When they’re gone, they’re gone.” Like there might never be another cookie in the house again. And I took that seriously. 

On the flip side, I’d go on business trips and just pack whatever lotion or makeup I already had. Glenn, on the other hand, saw nothing wrong with buying extra—one for the house, one for the toiletry bag. To me, that felt wasteful. But Glenn grew up with nothing, and his stories make my head spin. We come from very different backgrounds. 

A Pattern Emerges 

This wasn’t the first time he’d casually used something that felt important to me. 

A few years ago, I bought a bottle of doTERRA Frankincense. It’s $72—comes out to about 24 cents a drop. I’d carefully watch in the mirror each morning as I placed three drops under my tongue and let them sit. Intentional, even if not perfectly ceremonial. 

Glenn? He’d open his mouth and drop in a random amount until he thought it was enough. When I mentioned the cost-per-drop, he scoffed. To him, it was silly. 

Then came the cacao. 

I was introduced to Ceremonial Cacao by Shandell Pino. That cacao helped me get off anxiety medication. It changed my relationship with myself. Shandell taught me to treat it as sacred, warming it on the stove, saying a prayer. My relationship with cacao is more casual than hers, but I still try to honor the process. 

When Glenn asked if he could start taking it, because the people on Instagram said it was “good for you,” I said yes, but told him I wanted to teach him about it first. That it’s not just a supplement, it’s a medicine. He scoffed again at his “silly little wife.” 

To be nice, I started putting his portion out in the morning. But when I watched him dump it in his coffee like it was oat milk creamer, I wanted to scream. And he now pays for all of our cacao. 

Two Threads: Cost and Sacredness 

So, here’s what I’m learning: 

There are two threads running through these moments, the cost and the sacredness. 

These things aren’t cheap. I don’t buy a lot of fancy extras. When I do, it’s thought out.
So yes, I want them to last. Yes, I want them treated with care.
But it’s not just about the price tag, it’s about how I relate to them. These tools, these rituals, give my life texture and meaning. They ground me. They remind me to slow down and tune in. 

And when someone else, especially someone I love, uses them with no pause, no respect, no understanding, it feels like something important is being missed. 

What I Told Glenn 

After the shilajit moment, I went back to Glenn and told him what I had realized. I wasn’t accusing him. I was sharing how that moment touched something deeper in me—something about the way I was raised, the way I spend money, the way I create meaning through small, sacred things. 

His response? “I’ll buy my own.” 

Which completely missed the point. I wasn’t gatekeeping. I was processing. 

And that, I’ve come to realize, might drive people in my life a little crazy. I don’t just react—I dig. I reflect. I ask why. I look for the lesson. 

This Is About Me 

The truth is these moments aren’t about Glenn at all. They’re about me. 

They’re about how I was raised. About what I value. About how I want to live.
They’re about noticing what makes me flinch and being brave enough to look underneath it instead of brushing it off. 

Glenn, to his credit, has become more open to these things over time. His Christian lens sometimes makes him cautious around anything that feels “woo,” but he’s learning. And so am I. 

Life keeps offering these small opportunities to wake up. To reflect.
To learn how to share what matters to me in a way that invites conversation instead of conflict. 

Not everything has to be sacred. But I get to decide what is, for me. 

Call to Action 

What are the small things in your life that feel sacred or special, especially when they aren’t cheap? Ever had someone brush past them like they were nothing? I’d love to hear how you protect what matters to you. 

And a deep thank you to Shandell Pino—whose teachings and presence have changed me. Her way of honoring the sacred gave me a new lens, not just for cacao, but for how I show up in my life.