Delicately looped around my ring finger, snug yet not uncomfortable, lays my most valuable possession. 

Worn on the fingers of my loved ones, passed down. Now, this significant object has found a home with me.  

Gold-plated, yet slightly tarnished from years of wear, the band is so thin it seems that the slightest strain might force it to snap. Meticulously placed in the center sits a light, fuchsia-toned gem, and bursting out from beneath is a halo of golden flower-like petals to secure it.

My ring. 

This ring will never remain static in a jewelry box or swing aimlessly on display with the rest of my necklaces and bracelets. This ring will never fathom the thought of being replaced, for every time one of its prongs falls loose or the band starts to hinge, I promptly rush to mend it. 

Despite my obvious admiration for my ring, I don’t fancy myself as someone who believes in giving inanimate objects—or intangible feelings—power over me. 

I don’t aimlessly dig through my belongings searching for something made of wood every time my words wrong me, and I have never thought of myself as a particularly superstitious person in general. 

However, with each glance down at my unsteady hands, rather than being distracted by whatever trinket they are fondling to keep busy, I found confidence in the almost-iridescent twinkle that looked up at me. I found the motivation to relentlessly strive for my most improbable goals, and more importantly, I found reassurance in their outcome.  

Whether I am petrified of falling at a cheer competition or scared my endless hours of preparation won’t be enough to get me through an upcoming math test, it is my ring that keeps my fears grounded.  

Because whether the outcome of such events is favorable or not, my ring is still my ring: the earth is still round, and the sun will still rise another day for me to try again. 

My ring, if nothing else, is a reminder that consistency surrounds us—even in our most unhinged moments. 

From the soft, tangerine-colored clouds that cascade freely across the sky on my morning drive to school, or the endless nights of my mother feeding me advice for whatever lies ahead, I have learned that finding moments of routine in the smallest crevices of life is what makes the daunting times more bearable.

Even the crevices that are small enough to fit around my finger.