Life can be a funny thing sometimes—the ironic way moments line up, like life is quietly nudging you and saying, “Hey, pay attention.”
Take this morning for example.
I had it on my schedule to write a post about a bracelet my wife gave me two years ago. Today marks two years exactly since she gave it to me, and since I first put it on. The plan was simple: share a little “Story-time with Michael” post, take the bracelet off at the end of the day, and retire it. I’m sentimental like that. I didn’t want to risk losing it—it’s been hanging on by a thread for a while.
Well, as I posted on the Fatherhood: Reloaded Instagram account this morning, as I was getting dressed for work, that final thread finally gave out. The bracelet slipped off my wrist and hit the floor. The timing was unreal.
This thing lasted two solid years. I only ever took it off once, and that was just to move it from my right wrist to my left. (I’m left-handed and bounce back and forth depending on which wrist I want to wear my watch. It’s a whole thing. Story for another day.)
The bracelet was a spontaneous gift from my wife—one of those cute couple’s things she didn’t think I’d actually wear. It had our first and last initials on it, and she gave it to me just a few months after we got engaged. And yet, here we are: two years later, I’ve worn it every day. The letters have faded, the string worn down to practically nothing, and her matching bracelet? Long gone, probably buried in a drawer somewhere.
For those curious, it came from Wanderer Bracelets. I’ve got to give them a shoutout because this thing has been through it with me: pools, the ocean, hikes, gym workouts, equipment rollouts for work—you name it. The fact that it lasted two years under the abuse I gave it is kind of wild.
And to be clear, it wasn’t out of obligation. I didn’t keep wearing it because I had to. At first, maybe it was laziness. But then it turned into something more—a quiet point of pride. A symbol. Something that stayed.
So now, the bracelet will sit on the shelf in my home office. Probably next to some of my son’s old casts. It may not be on my wrist anymore, but I won’t cherish it any less.
Here’s to two years—and one thread.