I was scrolling through social media the other day when I came across another post that read something like, “If he wanted to, he would.”

The comments were exactly what you’d expect.

“He should’ve bought you flowers.”

“If he loved you, he’d surprise you with jewelry.”

“Never settle for the bare minimum.”

I scrolled for a while, reading comment after comment, and eventually put my phone down because one question kept bouncing around in my head.

When did gifts stop being something someone gave because they wanted to, and start becoming something we expected because they were supposed to?

Don’t get me wrong. I love receiving gifts. I love birthdays, anniversaries, and those random little surprises that let you know someone was thinking about you. There’s something incredibly special about realizing you crossed someone’s mind when you weren’t even there.

But lately I’ve started wondering if we’ve unintentionally changed what gifts are supposed to represent.

Somewhere along the way, the gift itself became the proof of love.

We measure relationships by bouquets delivered to the office, engagement rings posted on Instagram, cars wrapped in giant red bows, extravagant vacations, and surprise shopping sprees. We ask, “What did they get you?” instead of, “How did they make you feel?”

And I can’t help but wonder what we’ve lost in the process.

We’re surrounded by this message every day.

The more expensive the gift, the deeper the love.

The bigger the surprise, the stronger the relationship.

The grander the gesture, the more committed someone must be.

But… is that actually true?

Think about the stories we watch.

In Sex and the City, Mr. Big often hides behind lavish gifts and extravagant gestures instead of allowing himself to be emotionally vulnerable. The gifts become a substitute for difficult conversations.

Then there’s The Bachelor. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy watching it. But nearly every season is filled with helicopter rides, luxury resorts, designer clothing, fantasy dates, and sparkling diamond rings. Those things make for great television, but they also quietly reinforce the idea that love is proven through extravagance. Ironically, many of those couples don’t stay together once the cameras stop rolling because real life isn’t built on fantasy suites and unlimited budgets.

Even outside of television, we’re constantly being sold the same message.

I used to work in sales, and one of the first things you’re taught is to find the emotional connection. People rarely buy because of logic alone. They buy because of how something makes them feel.

You’re not selling a car.

You’re selling the idea that your family will be safer.

You’re not selling jewelry.

You’re selling romance.

You’re selling reassurance.

You’re selling the feeling that someone is deeply loved.

Jewelry companies have mastered this.

“Every kiss begins with Kay.”

What a brilliant slogan.

It doesn’t tell you the diamonds sparkle more than anyone else’s. It quietly suggests that if you really love someone, this is where your story begins.

Walk through Target the week before Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, or Christmas.

Look around.

Notice how many displays encourage you to “Show your love,” “Find the perfect gift,” or “Make this holiday unforgettable.”

Then ask yourself another question.

How many displays remind you that love can also look like sitting beside someone during chemotherapy?

Or folding the laundry because they’ve had an exhausting day.

Or making dinner without being asked.

Or listening when they’re hurting.

Or remembering exactly how they take their coffee.

Those things rarely make advertisements because you can’t package them on a shelf.

I know I’ve fallen into this mindset myself.

For a long time, I focused more on what was received than on the intention behind it.

In my last post, I mentioned that my mental health has been improving, and I wasn’t upset that Wyatt didn’t get me anything for our anniversary.

The more I’ve reflected on it, though, I don’t think that was just because I was in a better place mentally.

I think my perspective has genuinely changed.

He apologized and told me he felt guilty for not buying flowers.

I told him I honestly wasn’t upset.

In fact, I told him something that surprised even me.

I told him not to worry about Christmas or my birthday either.

Not because I don’t enjoy gifts.

But because I never want him to feel pressured into buying something simply because society says he’s supposed to.

To be clear, I don’t think gifts are the problem.

Some of the most meaningful moments in my life have involved gifts. Thoughtful gifts have a way of making you feel seen in a way that’s difficult to describe. The problem isn’t the gift itself. The problem is when love becomes measured by the size of the gift, the amount of money spent, or whether someone remembered the “right” holiday.

Because once a gift becomes an obligation, it starts losing the very thing that made it meaningful in the first place.

One of my favorite examples comes from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.

On Christmas morning, Ron grumbles about the handmade sweater his mom knitted for him. It’s just another Christmas sweater.

Then he notices Harry got one too.

Harry doesn’t see an itchy sweater.

He sees something completely different.

Someone thought about him.

Someone included him.

Someone cared enough to make something with their own hands.

For a boy who had spent his entire life feeling forgotten, that sweater meant more than money ever could.

I think about that scene a lot.

While Wyatt and I were dating, I randomly told him a story about these cow slippers I had as a little girl. Your feet went into the cow’s mouth, and I absolutely loved them. Eventually our dogs chewed them up, and I remember being devastated.

It wasn’t an important story.

I honestly forgot I’d even told him.

Then one day he showed up with a pair of cow slippers.

Not because it was my birthday.

Not because it was Christmas.

Not because an advertisement told him this was the perfect time to buy a gift.

He bought them because, somewhere in the middle of an ordinary day, he remembered an ordinary story that mattered to me.

That pair of slippers probably cost less than dinner at a restaurant.

Yet years later, I still remember them.

Not because of what they were.

But because of what they said.

“I listened.”

“I remembered.”

“I thought about you when you weren’t around.”

Maybe that’s what gifts were always supposed to be.

Not obligations.

Not proof.

Not something we keep score with.

Just quiet little reminders that, for a moment in someone else’s day, we crossed their mind.

The gifts I remember most aren’t the expensive ones.

They’re the cow slippers from a story I’d almost forgotten.

The snack someone picked up because they knew it was my favorite.

The cup of coffee waiting for me after a long morning.

Those gifts didn’t change my life because of what they cost.

They changed it because of what they said.

“I listened.”

“I remembered.”

“I thought about you when you weren’t around.”

Maybe that’s what we’ve forgotten.

In a world that constantly tells us love should arrive wrapped in ribbons, tucked inside jewelry boxes, or parked in the driveway with a giant red bow, I hope we don’t lose sight of the quieter gifts.

The ones that can’t be bought.

The ones that aren’t expected.

The ones that simply remind us that, somewhere in the middle of an ordinary day, someone thought of us.

And maybe, just maybe, those are the gifts that mean the most.