Lost and Found

When I was twelve, I lost a small silver locket my mother had given me. It wasn’t worth much — just a tiny thing with a faded photograph of her and my father inside — but to me, it felt like the center of everything I loved. I remember turning the house upside down: lifting couch cushions, digging through drawers, even crawling under the porch where the floorboards creaked and spiders lived. But it was gone.

That night, I cried until I fell asleep, my hands still clutching the empty space where the chain used to rest on my neck. The next morning, my mother sat beside me on the edge of the bed. She didn’t scold me for losing it. She just brushed my hair back and said softly, “Sometimes what we lose is meant to remind us of what we still have.”

I didn’t understand what she meant. I only knew that something precious had slipped away, and no amount of searching would bring it back.

Years went by. The locket became one of those stories families repeat — the “remember when you lost…” kind. But even as I grew older, it stayed with me, that dull ache of misplacement. Maybe that’s when I began to hold everything a little too loosely. I told myself I didn’t need to cling to things, that detachment was maturity. But the truth was, I just didn’t want to feel that sting of loss again.

Life, however, doesn’t really let you choose.

In my twenties, I lost a friendship that once felt like home. There was no fight, no betrayal — just silence that grew too wide to cross. Then I lost love, the kind that makes you believe you’ve finally found your forever. I ruined it with my fear of needing someone. I thought if I didn’t depend on anyone, nothing could hurt me. But emptiness can ache louder than heartbreak.

And somewhere along the way, I lost myself too.

I became a collection of roles — employee, friend, daughter — all the while forgetting the person beneath them. I lived like a shadow, functional but hollow, chasing deadlines, not dreams.

It wasn’t until years later, after my father passed away, that I returned to the house I grew up in. It felt smaller than I remembered, quieter too. The air smelled like old wood and memories. His shoes still sat by the door. My mother’s chair, empty since she left us years before, faced the same window where she used to drink her tea.

I came to clean, but instead, I found myself standing in each room like a stranger in a museum of my own past.

In my old bedroom, dust gathered on forgotten corners. I opened a drawer out of habit, not expecting much. And there it was — a glint of silver tangled in an old piece of string.

The locket.

I froze. It didn’t feel real. My fingers trembled as I picked it up. The hinge creaked slightly, and when I opened it, the tiny photo inside was still there — my parents smiling, younger than I ever remembered them. My throat tightened.

It was like time had folded in on itself, handing me back a piece of my childhood I thought was gone forever.

That night, I sat by the same window where my mother once sat, the locket resting in my palm. The moonlight caught the silver just right, and I realized — she had been right all along.

What we lose really does remind us of what we still have.

Loss has a strange way of sharpening your vision. It makes you notice the things you once took for granted — the warmth of morning light through the curtains, the laughter that echoes after dinner, the weight of someone’s hand when they mean it. I had spent years running from loss, not realizing that it was trying to teach me how to see.

The locket wasn’t just a memory of what I’d lost. It was a message: that everything, even pain, has a way of returning — not in the same form, but in meaning.

I wear the locket again now, though not every day. Some days it hangs by my bedside, a quiet witness to my mornings. Some days I forget it, and that’s okay too. Because I’ve learned that not everything has to be held tightly to be treasured.

I’ve also learned that being “lost” isn’t always a tragedy. Sometimes, it’s an invitation — a space that asks, Who will you become now?

When I think about the things I’ve lost — people, places, moments, versions of myself — I no longer grieve them the same way. I honor them. They shaped me, guided me, and made room for the person I’ve become.

Last week, I gave my niece the locket. She’s ten — the same age I was when I lost it. She asked me if I was sure. I smiled and told her, “If you ever lose it, don’t worry. Some things find their way back when you’re ready.”

She laughed, not really understanding, and I didn’t expect her to. She’ll learn someday — that life is a constant cycle of losing and finding, of letting go and rediscovering, of breaking and rebuilding.

And maybe one day, she’ll open an old drawer and find it again, the way I did.

Because that’s how life works, doesn’t it?

You lose something — a person, a dream, a little silver locket — and for a while, it hurts like it’s the end. But years later, you find something softer, something wiser waiting for you on the other side of that pain.

It’s not always the same thing you lost.

Sometimes, it’s a memory.
Sometimes, it’s peace.
And sometimes, it’s you.