As I stepped out of the yellow school bus in mid-October of seventh grade—my first year at Westridge—I noticed a herd of Lower Schoolers swarming a white folding table. Two high schoolers stood behind the table, selling a variety of handmade jewelry. Containing every color imaginable from bright gold to red, my eyes examined the several options, and a pair of blue and white earrings stood out to me. Instantly, I held them close to my eyes, studying the shimmering silver butterfly that hung on one and the half moon displayed by the other. 

This unique pair of earrings stuck with me for another four years. No matter the occasion, it was the only pair of earrings I wore. From seventh grade to eleventh, whether attending a fancy dinner or simply going to school, the same jewelry always dangled from my ears. I received countless compliments on the unique set, and I enjoyed how it elevated each of my outfits.

Over the years, I had many close calls where I believed I had lost my beloved pair of earrings, but they always eventually resurfaced either stuck in my clothes or on my bathroom floor. Unfortunately, last October, the day finally came. One of my cherished earrings (the one adorned with a half moon) either fell off during school or while I was at the South Pasadena Library, and this time it was gone for good. My first response was to deny the situation entirely. I thought losing one of my earrings would never really happen. I kept checking my bathroom or if it had gotten stuck in my hair once again. I held onto the hope that it would appear, but unfortunately, the single earring never found its way back home.

Although they are just earrings, they have become a part of me. My earrings and I were connected—while wearing them, I never faced issues of infection or irritation; they simply fit perfectly. However, when I was gifted a new pair, they instantly began to irritate my ears. Ultimately, any other pair of earrings did not feel the same. I felt a loss knowing I could not just replace the pair.

Amidst the chaos of junior year (which, thanks to immense amounts of schoolwork and friendship struggles, feels like the most unstable period of my life), losing the earring felt like another obstacle thrown at me. Now as I enter the second semester of my junior year, I face the college process and a doubtless increase in workload—while playing varsity lacrosse—all without the earring that joined me at the very beginning of my Westridge career. The earring remained consistent with me nearly every day, so moving forward without it felt even more unstable. Ultimately, the weight of junior year grew heavier.

As I continue the battle of junior year without my earring, I have realized that I’m not the same person I was four years ago. I’ve grown a lot from the quiet seventh grader I once was. As a high schooler, I’ve tried out new sports, spoken in front of the entire Upper School, and discovered my passions. While my earring clung to me, I grew and transformed into the person I am today. In seventh grade, my earrings gave me the confidence to be bold, but I no longer need an earring to be unapologetically myself. 

As the months progressed, I moved toward a new stage: acceptance. Before I lost the earring, I had rarely realized how grateful I was for the glistening pair. They provided me compliments, never failed to match my outfits, and remained consistent with me in my daily life. While I wish I was more grateful for them in the time I had them, the loss has given me a newfound appreciation for not only my earrings, but also the other little things that impact my daily life. 

Looking for gratitude in the little things had not come so easily before I lost my earring. However, I’ve begun finding joy in the 25-minute car ride to school or sitting in the physics classroom trying to finish my homework bright and early at 8:00 a.m. Though it’s hard for me to admit, senior year is not far away. Soon, I will enter my last year of high school, and even without my earring, I’m making the most of every moment.