It all started with a simple walk along the beach. I had just lost my job and found myself with an unsettling amount of free time.
Losing a job is funny in a not-so-funny way. At first, it hits you with this wave of panic—your mind running a hundred miles an hour, wondering what’s next. Then, somehow, it shifts into denial. Like your brain is trying to convince you this is just a temporary hiccup, even while a little voice whispers that maybe, just maybe, it’s not.
In my case, that whisper felt louder because the economy wasn’t exactly thriving. Industries like mine—advertising, tourism, all that jazz—seemed to be slowing down to a crawl.
So, to keep from spiraling, I hopped on my bike. Not for the love of cycling, mind you, but because I needed to stay sane. Most days, I’d end up at the beach, pedaling hard enough to sweat out the stress. For those fleeting moments when my legs burned and the world blurred past, I almost forgot I was unemployed. Almost.
One afternoon, after parking my bike by the shore, I wandered along the rocky coastline. That’s when I saw it. A flicker of sunlight caught my eye, glinting off something in the sand. I bent down and picked up a small, smooth stone—a piece of red agate, polished to perfection by the waves. It shimmered in the sunlight like it held a secret.
That was the moment.
From then on, every time I went to the beach, my eyes stayed glued to the ground, scanning for treasures hidden in plain sight. One stone led to another, and before I knew it, I was diving into books on geology, petrology, and mining. My Instagram feed and YouTube suggestions transformed into endless streams of rock collectors and gem enthusiasts.
I became obsessed—not just with the stones themselves, but with their stories. Their colors, textures, and the energy people claimed they carried. I read about their metaphysical properties, the myths, the symbolism. Each one felt like a little piece of magic.
Soon, my collection grew out of control. My pockets, drawers, and even my shelves were filled with stones I couldn’t name but couldn’t part with either. It was exhilarating—like a treasure hunt without a map.
Then one day, I stumbled on a video about carving and tumbling stones. It was as if someone had flipped a switch. Suddenly, those rocks weren’t just rocks anymore—they were possibilities.
A lot has changed since then.