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I’ve always been a bit precious about gift-giving, haven’t I? If you’ve read any of my other pieces, you know I’m the sort who keeps detailed notes on preferences, maintains color-coded spreadsheets of past presents, and generally approaches the whole business with the strategic intensity of someone planning a military campaign rather than selecting a birthday present.

For years, I operated as a gift-giving lone wolf. When family suggested going in together on presents, I’d smile politely while internally thinking, “No thanks, I work alone.” The very idea of collaborative gift selection seemed like a compromise at best, a recipe for mediocrity at worst. After all, wouldn’t combining ideas inevitably lead to watered-down concepts, design-by-committee presents that lacked the personal touch?

Oh, how gloriously wrong I was.

My conversion to cooperative gift-giving happened entirely by accident four years ago, courtesy of my brother Tom’s 40th birthday. I’d been planning an elaborate gift for months—a custom-built record storage unit for his growing vinyl collection, designed to fit perfectly in the awkward alcove of his living room. I’d consulted with a carpenter, selected the wood, and was just about to place the order when our mother called.

“I’ve had a brilliant idea for Tom’s birthday,” she announced. “What about a proper record storage cabinet for all those albums he keeps stacked on the floor? I’ve even found someone who could build it.”

I nearly dropped the phone. She’d landed on exactly the same idea, right down to having found the same local carpenter. My first reaction was territorial annoyance—this was MY gift idea, thank you very much! But as she enthusiastically described her vision, I realized it was both remarkably similar to mine and different in intriguing ways. She’d thought about interior dividers I hadn’t considered. I’d planned a finish that would better match his existing furniture.

“Actually,” I heard myself saying, “what if we did this together? Combined our budgets and ideas?”

What followed was a revelation. Through several conversations and shared Pinterest boards (yes, my 68-year-old mother uses Pinterest, and with surprising skill), we created a design far superior to what either of us had initially envisioned. Mum thought about practical elements I’d overlooked in my aesthetic focus. I pushed for design details that elevated it from purely functional to genuinely special. The carpenter, relieved to have consolidated client input, incorporated our collective vision into something that exceeded both our original concepts.

When Tom unwrapped a miniature model of the cabinet (the actual piece being too large to wrap), along with photos of the in-progress build, his reaction was unlike anything I’d seen from previous solo-mission gifts. “This is incredible,” he kept saying, examining every detail of the design. “It’s exactly what I needed but so much better than I would have thought to ask for.”

The cabinet has become the centerpiece of his living room, regularly photographed by vinyl-enthusiast friends for their own inspiration. It remains one of the most successful gifts I’ve ever been involved with—not despite the collaboration but because of it.

That experience cracked open something fundamental in my approach to giving. I’d been so focused on the personal triumph of finding the “perfect” gift that I’d missed the multiplicative power of collaborative creativity. When gift-givers combine their different perspectives, resources, and insights about the recipient, the result can transcend what any individual could achieve alone.

Since that revelation with Tom’s cabinet, I’ve become a proper evangelist for cooperative gift-giving. I’ve organized gift collaborations for significant birthdays, wedding presents, new baby celebrations, and milestone anniversaries. With each project, I’ve refined my understanding of when and how collective giving works best.

Take my friend Priya’s wedding gift, for instance. When she and her partner announced their engagement, several of us from university wanted to get them something special. Individually, we were each considering variations on kitchen equipment, tableware, or home décor—all lovely but somewhat expected.

Over coffee one afternoon, we started casually discussing our ideas, and a much more compelling possibility emerged. We realized that collectively, our friend group contained a photographer, a writer, a graphic designer, and me (the obsessive gift planner). What if, instead of physical objects, we created something that utilized all our skills?

The result was a completely bespoke commemorative book documenting Priya and her partner’s relationship. Our photographer friend conducted a proper photo shoot of the couple in significant locations from their relationship. The writer interviewed their family members and friends, collecting stories and memories. The graphic designer created a stunning layout incorporating these elements along with scanned mementos like ticket stubs and handwritten notes I’d helped collect from their families.

The final product—professionally printed and bound in small-batch production—was something none of us could have created individually, either financially or in terms of skills. It combined professional-quality elements that would have cost thousands to commission, all made possible through our collaborative effort.

When they opened it at their wedding reception, Priya was speechless for a full minute before bursting into tears. “This is us,” she kept saying, turning the pages slowly. “This is actually us.” Four years later, that book still sits prominently on their coffee table, regularly shown to visitors and, according to Priya, “the one thing I’d grab in a fire after the cats.”

What makes cooperative gift-giving so powerful isn’t just the practical pooling of financial resources (though that certainly helps for more ambitious presents). It’s the diversity of perspectives and skills that creates true gift alchemy.

When my colleague Olivia had her first baby after a difficult journey through fertility treatments, our work team wanted to give her something meaningful. Individually, we were all contemplating the usual new baby gifts—clothes, toys, practical items. Nice, but hardly memorable among the flood of similar presents she’d receive.

During a lunch discussion, our collective knowledge of Olivia revealed something important: she’d always been passionate about nature and had mentioned wanting to create a “backyard wildlife sanctuary” at their new home but expected that dream to be delayed indefinitely with a newborn.

What if, we realized, we could make that happen for her?

Our collaborative approach allowed for someone to research native plants suitable for wildlife attraction in her specific area. Another colleague with gardening experience selected species that would require minimal maintenance. Someone else created a planting design that could be implemented in phases as the baby grew. I coordinated with a local nursery that could deliver and plant everything according to our plan.

The gift—presented as a beautiful illustrated plan with the first phase of plants already scheduled for delivery and planting—reduced Olivia to happy tears. “You’ve given me back something I thought I’d have to give up,” she told us. “The baby and I will watch this grow together.”

Over the following year, we heard regular updates about fox cubs playing in the meadow area we’d helped establish, the first butterflies on the lavender, and how sitting by the window watching birds at the feeders became a special bonding time during late-night feeding sessions with her daughter. The cooperative nature of our gift had created something far more meaningful than any individual present could have been.

I’ve found that certain occasions particularly benefit from cooperative approaches. Milestone birthdays—40ths, 50ths, 60ths—often call for something more significant than everyday presents. Wedding gifts provide natural opportunities for collective giving, allowing for presents of greater impact than typical registry items. And “difficult to buy for” recipients—those who seemingly have everything—frequently yield to collective creativity when individual ideas fall short.

My father-in-law, notoriously impossible to shop for, had resisted all conventional gift attempts for years. “Don’t waste your money,” he’d say every birthday and Christmas. “I don’t need anything.” Individual family members had resigned themselves to token presents that generated polite but unenthusiastic responses.

For his 70th birthday, I suggested a family collaboration. Through careful conversations with different relatives, a pattern emerged: he frequently reminisced about the small Yorkshire village where he’d grown up but hadn’t visited in over twenty years. Various obstacles—his wife’s mobility issues, the distance from their current home, the emotional weight of returning to a much-changed place—had made it seem complicated.

Our collective gift became a carefully planned long weekend return to his hometown, with every potential obstacle addressed through our combined knowledge and resources. My brother-in-law researched accessible accommodation options. Charlie’s sister, who lives nearest to the village, scoped out which childhood landmarks still existed. I created a custom guidebook with then-and-now photos sourced from local historical societies and family albums. His grandchildren recorded video interviews with still-local residents who remembered his family.

When he unwrapped the beautifully presented trip plan, complete with train tickets and the supporting materials we’d created, his usual polite restraint crumbled completely. “You’ve thought of everything,” he said quietly, voice thick with emotion. “I never thought I’d go back.”

That trip became a pivotal family experience, yielding stories he’d never previously shared and creating new memories alongside revisited ones. No individual gift-giver could have created such a comprehensive experience, addressing both practical needs and emotional nuances. It required our collective insight, resources, and implementation.

Of course, cooperative gift-giving isn’t without its challenges. Different contributors may have varying budgets, potentially creating awkward dynamics. Conflicting aesthetic judgments can lead to compromise designs that please no one entirely. And strong personalities (I reluctantly include myself in this category) sometimes struggle to relinquish control over the final outcome.

Over years of collaborative projects, I’ve developed some practical approaches to maximize the benefits while minimizing the friction:

Clear but flexible leadership helps tremendously. Most successful group gifts have someone serving as primary coordinator (a role I often volunteer for, shocking no one who knows me). This person keeps track of the timeline, consolidates input, and ensures forward momentum, while still respecting the collaborative nature of the process.

For my grandmother’s 90th birthday, I created a shared digital workspace where family members could contribute ideas, vote on options, and track our progress. As coordinator, I set deadlines, summarized discussions, and moved decisions forward when they threatened to stall in endless debate over details. The result—a beautifully curated memory box with contributions from four generations of family members—required both collective input and structured management.

Defining contribution expectations early prevents resentment. Some collaborative gifts involve equal financial contributions, while others work better with varying financial inputs balanced by different forms of effort. Being explicit about these expectations from the outset avoids uncomfortable situations later.

When organizing a group gift for a retiring colleague, I created a sliding scale of suggested contributions based on seniority and relationship closeness, while also offering “effort alternatives” for those with limited finances but valuable skills or time to offer. This transparent approach allowed everyone to participate meaningfully without financial stress.

Focusing on complementary strengths rather than compromise designs typically yields better results. Instead of having everyone weigh in equally on every aspect, identify what each contributor does best and create space for those strengths to shine.

For my friend James’s 40th birthday adventure gift, one friend with travel industry connections secured special experiences. Another with detailed knowledge of James’s food preferences planned the meals. Someone else with graphic design skills created the presentation materials. I handled the overall logistics and timeline. Rather than averaging out our ideas, we each owned different aspects of the project.

Documentation and communication tools make a tremendous difference. Shared Pinterest boards, collaborative documents, group messaging, and project management apps have all proven invaluable for keeping everyone engaged and informed without endless email chains or meeting fatigue.

For planning my parents’ anniversary celebration, we created a shared digital folder where scattered family members could contribute photos, memories, and ideas asynchronously across multiple time zones. This approach allowed my brother in Australia to be as involved as those of us in the UK, resulting in a truly family-wide collaboration despite geographic challenges.

Perhaps most importantly, I’ve learned that the best collaborative gifts maintain a singular focus on the recipient’s joy rather than any contributor’s vision. When disputes arise—as they inevitably do—returning to the central question “What would most delight this specific person?” usually clarifies the path forward.

When debating elements of a group-funded garden renovation for our friend Sonia, opinions diverged about aesthetic choices. Redirecting the conversation to what would best suit Sonia’s specific preferences and needs—rather than anyone’s personal garden ideals—quickly resolved the impasse and refocused our collective energy.

The results of these collaborative approaches have consistently exceeded what I could have achieved alone, both in scope and in emotional impact. There’s something uniquely powerful about receiving a gift that represents the combined insight, effort, and care of multiple people who value you.

My mother’s 70th birthday present—a collaborative recipe collection gathering family dishes across generations and continents—brought together contributions from relatives who rarely communicate directly. The final collection included not just recipes but stories, memories, and photographs spanning our extended family history. As she paged through it for the first time, she kept saying, “Everyone did this? Together? For me?” The collective nature of the gift carried as much emotional weight as its content.

This shift toward cooperative gift-giving has changed not just how I approach presents but how I view relationships more broadly. I’ve watched family members who typically interact superficially engage in meaningful conversations about shared memories while planning collaborative gifts. I’ve seen friendships deepen through the vulnerability of creative collaboration. I’ve witnessed the healing of old tensions when focused on a common goal of bringing joy to someone mutual beloved.

The process itself often becomes its own form of gift—not just to the recipient but to everyone involved. Working together on something meaningful creates connection and shared purpose that extends beyond the present itself. Some of my closest current friendships have been strengthened through successful gift collaborations, the shared achievement creating bonds that transcend the initial project.

I still maintain my color-coded spreadsheets and meticulous preference notes. I still occasionally execute solo gift missions for everyday occasions. But for the truly significant moments—the milestone celebrations, the once-in-a-lifetime opportunities, the difficult-to-delight recipients—I now instinctively reach out to potential collaborators rather than going it alone.

Because what I’ve discovered, somewhat to my perfectionistic surprise, is that the most perfect gifts often emerge not from individual brilliance but from collective care—from the magic that happens when different perspectives, skills, and insights combine in service of bringing joy to someone all contributors value.

So the next time you’re facing a significant gift occasion, consider who else might want to join forces with you. Who brings complementary knowledge about the recipient? Who offers skills or resources different from your own? Who shares your desire to create something truly meaningful?

You might just find, as I have, that the gift-giving lone wolf approach—satisfying as it can sometimes be—pales in comparison to the creativity, impact, and connection that emerges when we give cooperatively. Some things really are better together than apart. And truly special gifts, it turns out, are absolutely among them.

The penny-drop moment came during what should have been a lovely birthday celebration for my Aunt Patricia. I’d spent weeks planning what I thought was the perfect experience gift—a day trip to a lavender farm complete with a guided tour, tea tasting, and botanical crafting workshop. I’d visited the place myself the previous summer and been enchanted by the rolling purple fields, the heady scent, and the general Instagram-perfect English countryside vibe of it all. Aunt Patricia loves gardening and had often mentioned wanting to grow lavender, so this seemed like the ideal way to indulge her interest while giving her a memorable day out.

What I’d completely failed to consider was that my aunt, though only in her early sixties, had been dealing with increasingly problematic knee issues that made walking on uneven terrain painful and difficult. The farm’s charm came partly from its rustic authenticity—meaning unpaved paths, subtle slopes, and precisely zero concessions to accessibility. About twenty minutes into what was meant to be a three-hour experience, I watched her face transition from polite enthusiasm to poorly concealed discomfort as she tried to navigate the rough ground with her walking stick. When she finally admitted she couldn’t continue, we abandoned the tour and spent the remainder of our “special day out” in the gift shop café while the rest of the group disappeared into the lavender fields without us.

“It’s lovely that you thought of me, darling,” she said, stirring her tea with determined cheerfulness. “The scones are delicious.” She didn’t mention the obvious—that I’d given her an experience that highlighted her limitations rather than one she could fully enjoy.

I was mortified. Worse, I realized this wasn’t even my first such misstep. There was the cooking class I’d booked for my friend James, forgetting that his rheumatoid arthritis made knife skills challenging. The wine tasting tour for my colleague Sarah, not considering that her medication didn’t mix well with alcohol. The immersive theatre experience for my cousin’s teenager with sensory processing issues, who lasted approximately twelve minutes before becoming overwhelmed by the noise and proximity of the actors.

These weren’t just minor gift miscalculations—they were experiences that made people I cared about feel excluded, uncomfortable, or reminded of their limitations, precisely the opposite of what a thoughtful gift should do. I pride myself on being The Gift Person, for heaven’s sake. How had I got this so consistently wrong?

The truth was uncomfortable but simple: I’d been designing experiences based on my own abilities and preferences, then mentally inserting other people into them without adequately considering their specific needs. I’d been giving the experiences I thought they should want rather than ones they could genuinely enjoy.

That lavender farm fiasco became the catalyst for a complete rethink of how I approach experience gifts, particularly for people with different ability levels. Over the past few years, I’ve developed a framework that’s helped me create accessibility-minded experiences that still deliver that special “gift occasion” feeling without excluding or alienating the recipient. It hasn’t been a perfect journey—I’ve still made mistakes—but the overall success rate has improved dramatically.

The first principle I’ve adopted is something I call “ability-forward planning.” This means explicitly considering physical, sensory, cognitive, and energy-related needs from the very beginning of the planning process, not as an afterthought. It sounds obvious, but it requires a significant mindset shift. Instead of thinking “What experience would they enjoy?” and then later trying to accommodate limitations, I now start with “What experience would be fully accessible to them while still being special?”

This shift means asking different questions during the planning phase. How long can they comfortably stand or walk? Are there sensory considerations like noise sensitivity or lighting preferences? Are there dietary restrictions that might make food-centric experiences challenging? What time of day are they typically at their best energy-wise? Do they need predictability and structure, or are they comfortable with spontaneity? These aren’t awkward, invasive questions when approached naturally as part of thoughtful gift planning.

Of course, asking directly isn’t always possible without spoiling the surprise element. In these cases, I’ve become something of a detective, gathering intelligence from people close to the recipient. “I’m planning something for Dad’s birthday—how have his energy levels been lately?” or “Has your husband mentioned any activities he’s found difficult recently?” These conversational approaches usually yield the information I need without raising suspicion.

My friend Meera, who uses a wheelchair, gave me invaluable insight into how well-intentioned experience gifts often go wrong. “People either choose completely sedentary activities that feel like they’re designed for someone sick rather than someone who uses a wheelchair, or they choose supposedly ‘accessible’ venues that turn out to have steps to the toilet or require navigating service entrances,” she explained. “What I want is to feel like my accessibility needs were considered from the start, not accommodated as an afterthought.”

This conversation led to my second principle: avoiding what I now think of as the “accessibility extremes.” On one end of the spectrum is planning experiences so cautious and limited that they feel medicalized or infantilizing—the equivalent of gifting someone a day in a care home activity room. On the other end is choosing mainstream experiences that claim to be “accessible” but actually deliver a second-class, modified version of the real experience.

The sweet spot lies in finding experiences that are inherently accessible without compromise—where the recipient gets the full experience, not a watered-down version. This might mean looking beyond the obvious options to discover venues, activities, and events specifically designed with universal accessibility in mind.

For Meera’s birthday, instead of the art gallery exhibition I’d initially considered (knowing she loves modern art but knowing many galleries have accessibility issues), I found a sculpture park with paved paths, accessible viewpoints, and a design philosophy that made wheelchair navigation part of the intended experience rather than an accommodation. The result was a day where her disability never became the focus—we simply enjoyed the art together without constant reminders of accessibility challenges.

My third principle involves what I call “accommodation without announcement.” This means making any necessary arrangements quietly and efficiently without drawing attention to them. Nobody wants their limitations to become the centerpiece of a gift experience, with everyone hyper-aware of the special considerations being made.

When I planned a cookery class for James (making up for my previous error), I spoke privately with the instructor beforehand. Rather than making a public accommodation, they simply structured the entire class to use techniques that didn’t require sustained knife work or grip strength—preparation methods that worked for everyone. James never felt singled out because the class was designed from the ground up to be inclusive.

Similarly, when organizing a theater outing for my cousin’s family, I didn’t book a special “relaxed performance” (which can sometimes feel stigmatizing) but instead found a production company that incorporates sensory-friendly elements into all their shows—lower sound levels, no sudden lighting changes, and quiet areas where anyone can take a break if needed. The experience felt premium and thoughtful rather than “modified.”

The fourth principle I’ve developed is “alternative equivalence”—ensuring that if certain elements of an experience aren’t accessible, the alternatives aren’t merely consolation prizes but equivalent in quality and memorability. This can require creativity and sometimes additional investment, but it’s essential for maintaining the “special occasion” feeling.

For my Aunt Patricia’s do-over lavender experience, I arranged a private workshop with a botanical perfumer who brought the lavender fields to her—with samples from different varieties, distillation demonstrations at her kitchen table, and a personalized scent-creating session. The experience wasn’t lesser for being adapted; it was different but equally special, and in some ways more personal than the original plan.

Sometimes this principle means creating parallel experiences where people with different abilities can participate in related but suitable activities before coming together for shared elements. When planning a family activity day that included my nephew who has ADHD and struggles with sustained attention, I organized three shorter experiences rather than one long one, with traveling between locations becoming part of the adventure rather than just transition time. This rhythm worked better for him while still giving everyone a full, connected day of experiences.

My fifth principle focuses on dignity preservation—ensuring that accessibility considerations never make the recipient feel like a burden or problem to be solved. Language matters enormously here. I never frame adaptations as “special arrangements” or draw attention to them unless absolutely necessary. They’re simply part of the thoughtfully planned experience.

When I arranged a food tour for Sarah (the colleague who couldn’t drink alcohol), I didn’t ask the tour company about “accommodating” her non-drinking status. Instead, I found a tour that naturally included exceptional non-alcoholic options at each stop—craft sodas, specialty teas, and house-made cordials—presented with the same ceremony and detail as the alcoholic offerings. The guide described each pairing without differentiating between alcoholic and non-alcoholic options, simply presenting them as equally valid choices. Sarah later told me it was the first food experience where she hadn’t felt like an afterthought.

My sixth principle might be the most important: prioritizing enjoyment over inspiration. There’s an unfortunate tendency in our culture to frame experiences for people with disabilities as inspirational challenges to “overcome” rather than occasions to simply enjoy. I’ve become hyper-aware of avoiding experiences that carry the subtext of “isn’t it amazing that you can do this despite your condition?”

This means staying away from experiences that could be perceived as “proving” something or that friends and family might respond to with statements like “I’m so impressed you managed that!” The gift recipient shouldn’t have to perform their ability or disability as part of receiving your gift.

When my uncle started using a mobility scooter after a stroke, well-meaning relatives immediately suggested experience gifts that seemed designed to test his new limits—an adapted cycling experience, a “accessible” kayaking trip—rather than things he’d genuinely enjoy. For his birthday, I instead arranged a private tour of a whisky distillery (a longtime interest of his) that had level floors throughout and plenty of seating. The gift honored his actual preferences rather than making his mobility device the focus of the experience.

The seventh principle is something I call “energy budgeting”—recognizing that many conditions and disabilities involve careful management of limited energy resources. An experience that requires using up an entire day’s worth of energy in a few hours might create enjoyment in the moment but lead to days of recovery afterward.

I’ve learned to design experiences with natural breaks, options to scale participation up or down depending on energy levels on the day, and without tight schedules that can’t accommodate unexpected needs for rest. For my friend with chronic fatigue syndrome, I created a “choose your own adventure” spa day where she could decide which treatments to have and when, with private relaxation areas available between activities, and a flexible end time that wouldn’t leave her feeling rushed.

My eighth principle involves advance information—providing detailed previews of what the experience will involve without spoiling the surprise elements. Many people with disabilities or chronic conditions need to prepare mentally and physically for activities, and uncertainty can create anxiety that undermines enjoyment.

When I plan experience gifts now, I create what I call “preparation packs” that outline practical elements like timing, physical requirements, sensory environments, food options, and available facilities, while still keeping the special or surprising elements under wraps. These aren’t clinical information sheets—I design them to build excitement while providing necessary information. For a mystery cultural experience I planned for my mother-in-law (who has anxiety about new situations), I created a beautiful little booklet with watercolor illustrations that outlined the day’s structure and practical details while keeping the specific performances and artists a surprise.

My ninth principle is perhaps the most challenging: embracing flexibility without compromising on specialness. The reality of many conditions is that good days and bad days are unpredictable. An experience that seemed perfectly matched to someone’s abilities when planned might land on a day when those abilities are temporarily reduced.

Rather than seeing this as a failure of planning, I now build contingency options into every experience gift. For my friend with fibromyalgia, I arranged a pottery workshop with a studio that offered both in-person and virtual options. When her symptoms flared unexpectedly on the scheduled day, we switched to the virtual format—the instructor delivered clay and tools to her home, and we connected online for a modified but still special creative experience. The ability to pivot without canceling entirely preserved the gift’s significance.

The final principle, which underlies all the others, is simple but crucial: the experience should celebrate the person, not accommodate their condition. The best accessibility-minded gifts never feel like they’re defined by limitations or differences. They feel like perfectly chosen experiences that happen to work well for that particular person in all their complexity.

This principle guides every choice, from the invitation wording to the experience itself to how it’s referenced afterward. The language should focus on the recipient’s interests, preferences, and personality, not their condition or accommodation needs. The goal is an experience so well-matched to them that accessibility becomes invisible—not because it’s ignored, but because it’s so seamlessly integrated that it never becomes the focus.

I put this principle into practice when planning a significant birthday experience for my friend David, who is blind. Instead of focusing on “blind-friendly” activities (a framing he dislikes), I centered the day around his passion for storytelling and oral history. We visited a working oral history archive where he could listen to rare recordings, participated in a sound art workshop where everyone worked without visual references, and ended with a storytelling dinner where each course was introduced with a story about its origins and significance. The day honored his interests and expertise rather than designing around his blindness, though every element was naturally accessible to him.

The results of this reframed approach to experience gifts have been transformative. Not only have the recipients enjoyed the experiences more fully, but our relationships have deepened through the process. There’s something powerfully connecting about feeling truly seen and considered—not despite differences in ability but with those differences acknowledged as natural parts of who someone is.

The lavender farm mistake with Aunt Patricia has become something of a family legend now, a story she tells with much more humor than I probably deserve. Last year, for her birthday, I gave her a different kind of lavender experience—a visit from a garden designer who specializes in accessible garden planning, who helped her create a raised lavender bed at exactly the right height for her to tend without kneeling or bending. She now has the lavender garden she always wanted, designed with her specific abilities in mind.

“You’ve certainly improved since the Lavender Farm Incident of 2018,” she told me wryly as we sat beside her new garden, breathing in the fragrance of the plants she can now tend independently. I had to agree. Sometimes the best gift lessons come from our most mortifying mistakes.

Creating truly accessible experiences isn’t about limiting options or providing watered-down alternatives. It’s about thoughtful design that centers the whole person—their interests, preferences, abilities, and needs—to create moments of genuine joy where limitations never become the focus. It takes more thought, more planning, and sometimes more creativity, but the resulting experiences create deeper connections and more meaningful memories. And isn’t that the whole point of giving experiences in the first place?

It was Boxing Day 2017, and I was sitting in my parents’ living room surrounded by discarded wrapping paper, empty chocolate boxes, and that particular post-Christmas fatigue that comes from too much food, too much family, and too many different gifts to keep track of. My brother Max was showing my dad how to use the complicated smart speaker I’d bought him (which he’d almost certainly never use after we left), while my mum was carefully folding the tissue paper from her gifts to reuse next year (a family tradition that Charles Dickens himself would recognise as properly British).

I had that familiar hollow feeling I get when gift-giving hasn’t gone quite right. Not that anyone was ungrateful—my family is unfailingly polite about presents, even the rubbish ones. But I could tell that most of what I’d given would be quietly relegated to drawers or charity shops within months. Despite keeping detailed notes on everyone’s preferences all year round, despite spending more than I could reasonably afford, despite wrapping everything with my usual obsessive attention to detail… something was missing.

“What’s with the face?” Charlie asked, dropping onto the sofa beside me with a mince pie in one hand and a glass of my dad’s questionable homemade sloe gin in the other.

“Just thinking about the gifts,” I admitted quietly. “They felt a bit… scattered this year. Like I was just ticking boxes rather than really connecting.”

Charlie considered this while chewing. “You know what happens when you overthink presents? You end up with fifteen different gifts for fifteen different people that have nothing to do with each other—or with you. Maybe that’s the problem.”

I was about to get defensive (because who was he to critique my gift-giving when his contribution to Christmas had been to sign his name on cards I’d written?), but something about what he’d said hit home. He was right. I’d been so focused on finding the “perfect” gift for each individual that I’d lost any sense of personal connection to what I was giving. The presents were technically appropriate but felt strangely anonymous—they could have come from anyone who’d studied the recipients’ preferences carefully enough.

That night, unable to sleep in my childhood bedroom with its questionably supportive mattress, I had what I now refer to as my “gift epiphany.” What if, instead of approaching each gift as an isolated challenge, I created a unifying theme for my giving each year? A sort of personal curatorial approach that would not only make the gifts more meaningful but would also help me feel more genuinely connected to what I was giving?

The next morning over breakfast, I announced to a bleary-eyed Charlie that 2018 would be “The Year of Handmade” for all my gifts. Everything I gave, to everyone, for every occasion, would be handmade—either by me or by a skilled artisan I could actually name.

“That’s… ambitious,” he said carefully, clearly calculating how this might affect his own gift prospects. “But also kind of brilliant? It’s very you.”

And that was exactly the point. It would be very me. Not just carefully selected for the recipient, but carrying something of myself and my values as well.

That first year was, I’ll admit, a bit of a learning curve. It turns out that committing to handmade gifts for an entire year requires planning that would impress military strategists. By March, our flat looked like a slightly unhinged craft workshop had exploded in it. I learned to knit (badly), tried my hand at simple bookbinding (more successfully), and developed a respectable soap-making operation in our kitchen (much to Charlie’s concern about the caustic ingredients involved).

For gifts beyond my own limited crafting abilities, I sought out independent makers through local markets, Instagram, and specialist shops. I became a regular at pottery studios, independent bookbinders, and small-batch candle makers. I developed relationships with artisans who took genuine pride in their work and could tell me the story behind each piece.

The results were transformative. That Christmas, gathering in the same living room with the same family, the energy was completely different. As people unwrapped their gifts, they didn’t just see an object—they saw the thought, time, and craftsmanship that had gone into it. My father actually teared up over the hand-bound notebook filled with family recipes I’d collected from relatives, something I’d never witnessed before during gift exchanges. My notoriously difficult-to-impress sister adored the ceramic serving platter made by a potter whose studio I’d visited three times to get the glaze colour exactly right.

“These feel like gifts from you this year,” my mum said thoughtfully, running her fingers over the hand-knitted (slightly wonky) scarf I’d spent weeks creating. “Not just things you bought, but pieces of yourself.”

That’s when I knew I was onto something important. The annual theme hadn’t just made my gifts more meaningful to the recipients; it had made giving more meaningful to me. I wasn’t just shopping—I was expressing something about my own values while still honoring the individual preferences of my loved ones.

Since that first “Year of Handmade,” I’ve created a new giving theme each January, using it to guide my gift choices for the entire year ahead. Some themes have been more successful than others (my husband would like everyone to forget “The Year of Foraging,” during which I nearly poisoned several family members with inadequately researched wild mushrooms). But each has taught me something valuable about both giving and receiving.

The year 2019 became “The Year of Experience,” where every gift involved doing rather than having. This ranged from elaborate experiences like the woodworking workshop I arranged for my dad, to simpler ones like the bread-making lesson I gave my notoriously kitchen-phobic brother. The theme forced me to think more deeply about what experiences might transform or enhance someone’s life, rather than just what objects they might want to own.

One of the unexpected benefits was how these experience gifts rippled outward, creating memories and skills that lasted far beyond the gift itself. My friend Priya still makes sourdough bread every weekend using the techniques she learned in the class I gave her, while my colleague Sarah met her now-husband during the pottery course that was her birthday present that year. (I take full credit for this relationship, much to their amusement.)

In 2020, when the pandemic hit, I had to hastily pivot from that year’s planned theme of “The Year of Travel” (spectacular timing on my part) to what became “The Year of Heritage.” This theme focused on gifts that connected people to their family history, cultural background, or personal journey.

This involved everything from commissioning a small-scale genealogy research project for Charlie’s parents (who discovered an unexpected family connection to a minor Victorian novelist) to tracking down seeds from the specific region in India where my friend Anaya’s grandparents had grown up, so she could plant them in her London garden. For my own mother, I created a soundscape of her Yorkshire hometown using recordings contributed by relatives who still lived there—the church bells, the particular call of birds in the local park, even the sound of the stream where she’d played as a child.

These heritage gifts struck an especially powerful chord during a time when many people were physically separated from family and feeling disconnected from their roots. They served as tangible reminders of belonging and identity when those things felt particularly precious.

In 2021, still navigating pandemic restrictions, I opted for “The Year of Letters”—gifts that incorporated written words in some form. This manifested as everything from commissioned poems to beautifully printed custom crossword puzzles to a series of letters from different friends and family members that I collected and bound for my dad’s 70th birthday. In a year when digital communication had become our primary connection with others, there was something powerfully intimate about handwritten words or carefully chosen text.

Last year was “The Year of Transformation”—gifts that would change or evolve over time. This included seeds and plants that would grow, art installations that would develop as they were interacted with, and projects designed to be completed or altered by the recipient. My favourite was the blank hand-thrown ceramic mug I gave each member of my immediate family along with special glazes and instructions for decorating them, culminating in a group “firing day” at the potter’s studio where we all glazed our creations together.

This year I’ve chosen “The Year of Local”—every gift must be created or sourced within 10 miles of where I’m giving it. It’s pushing me to discover makers, products, and experiences in my immediate community that I might otherwise have overlooked, while also reducing the environmental impact of my giving. I’m only a few months in, but I’ve already found an incredible bookbinder working out of a converted garden shed two streets over, a woman making small-batch skincare from herbs grown on her allotment, and a retired silversmith teaching small workshops in his home studio.

What I’ve learned through these themed giving years is that the constraint of a unifying concept actually enhances creativity rather than limiting it. When faced with infinite gift possibilities, it’s easy to default to obvious or safe choices. But when working within a thematic framework, I’m forced to think more laterally and often discover options I’d never have considered otherwise.

The structure of the annual theme allows for both consistency and variety. While all gifts share the conceptual connection of the theme, they can still be individually tailored to each recipient’s preferences and needs. My brother’s handmade gift (an artisan-crafted leather wallet) looks nothing like my grandmother’s handmade gift (a quilt incorporating fabric from old family clothes), yet they share the essential quality of skilled craftsmanship and personal significance.

There’s also something wonderfully clarifying about having a guiding principle for gift selection. When faced with the overwhelming options of modern consumer culture, the theme acts as a filter, immediately eliminating vast swathes of potential gifts and allowing me to focus my attention more meaningfully on what remains. Instead of drowning in possibilities, I’m channeled toward specific categories of giving that align with my values for that year.

The practical implementation of a giving theme does require some forethought. I typically spend the first month of each year reflecting on what concept feels most meaningful to me at that moment in my life. What values do I want my gifts to embody this year? What sorts of connections do I want to create? What skills or communities do I want to engage with through my giving?

Once I’ve settled on the theme, I create a simple framework for applying it to different categories of recipients and occasions. This usually involves brainstorming how the theme might manifest for close family versus friends versus colleagues, or how it could be adapted for birthdays versus holidays versus thank-you gifts. This preparation makes the actual gift selection process throughout the year much more focused and intentional.

I also maintain a running list of potential resources related to that year’s theme—artisans, workshops, suppliers, experiences, or services that might become the foundation for specific gifts. This might sound like yet another layer of my admittedly excessive gift organization system, but it actually simplifies the process enormously by creating a curated selection of options to consider before each gifting occasion.

Perhaps the most unexpected benefit of the annual theme approach has been how it’s influenced my identity as a giver. Each theme year becomes a sort of personal growth project, as I learn new skills, connect with different communities of makers, or research historical and cultural traditions related to that year’s concept. The “Year of Handmade” taught me basic crafting skills I’d never attempted before. The “Year of Heritage” deepened my understanding of family history research techniques. The “Year of Local” is currently teaching me to see my neighborhood through entirely new eyes.

These themes have also created a sort of gift biography—a record of my preoccupations, values, and personal evolution over time. Looking back, I can see how “The Year of Experience” coincided with my own desire to live more fully in the moment, while “The Year of Heritage” reflected my growing interest in family stories and cultural roots as I entered my thirties. The gifts become not just expressions of the recipients’ preferences but markers of my own journey.

Of course, there are challenges to this approach. Some themes are harder to apply to certain recipients than others. During “The Year of Letters,” I struggled to find appropriate text-based gifts for my sport-obsessed teenage nephew who considers reading a form of torture. (I eventually commissioned a graphic novel about his favourite footballer, which was a surprising hit.) And there’s always the risk that your passion for the theme might not translate to equal enthusiasm from the recipients.

There’s also the practical reality that themed giving often requires more advance planning than conventional shopping. I’ve had to become more organized, starting my gift preparation months earlier than I used to. Last-minute gift emergencies—which used to be resolved with a panicked dash to John Lewis—now require more creative solutions within the parameters of that year’s theme.

But these challenges are far outweighed by the richness the themed approach has brought to my giving. It’s transformed the act of selecting gifts from a series of isolated transactions into a coherent expression of values and intentions. It’s connected me more deeply to the objects and experiences I give, making me a more mindful and present giver. And it’s created a distinctive gift signature that recipients have come to recognize and (mostly) appreciate.

“Oh, this is definitely one of Emma’s ‘Year of Whatever’ presents,” is now a common reaction when family members receive my gifts. They may roll their eyes a bit at my systematized approach to what should be spontaneous generosity, but they also seem to value how these themed gifts reflect thought and intention beyond the ordinary.

As this year unfolds with its “local” focus, I’m already contemplating what next year’s theme might be. Perhaps “The Year of Repair”—gifts that mend, restore, or reimagine broken or forgotten things. Or maybe “The Year of Stories”—presents that carry or create narratives in some form. The possibilities are endless, which is precisely the point. By creating a different thematic lens each year, the act of giving remains fresh and meaningful, both for me and for those on the receiving end.

What began as a response to that hollow Boxing Day feeling has evolved into a practice that brings intention and consistency to my giving while still honoring the unique preferences of each recipient. The annual theme doesn’t override individual consideration—it enhances it by adding a layer of personal meaning and connection to each carefully chosen gift.

In a culture that often treats gift-giving as either an obligation to be dispatched as efficiently as possible or a competition to find the most impressive item, the themed approach offers a middle path—one that honors both the giver and receiver through thoughtful constraint and creative possibility.

And yes, Charlie still occasionally teases me about the mushroom foraging incidents. Some gifts, it seems, remain memorable for all the wrong reasons. But that’s all part of the journey, isn’t it?

The package sat on my desk for three days before I worked up the nerve to send it.

It wasn’t particularly fancy—just a secondhand copy of Donna Tartt’s “The Secret History” wrapped in brown paper with a typed note that read: “Thought you might enjoy this. No need to know who sent it.” No signature. No return address. Just a book I’d overheard a colleague mention wanting to read but never getting around to buying.

I’d been thinking about anonymous giving for weeks after witnessing something unexpected in a café near our office. An elderly man had quietly paid for a young mother’s order when her card was declined. He slipped the money to the barista with explicit instructions not to mention it until he’d left. I happened to be standing close enough to overhear, and watched as he hurried out before the woman could be told that her bill had been settled. Her surprise and relief were genuine, her gratitude directed into empty air.

The whole interaction lasted maybe 30 seconds, but it stuck with me. There was something powerful about the deliberate removal of himself from the equation—the gift existed purely as an act of kindness, not as a social transaction requiring acknowledgment or thanks.

So there I was, staring at this wrapped book like it was a bomb I wasn’t sure how to defuse. What was I so afraid of? That my colleague would somehow figure out it was me? That the gift would seem weird or presumptuous? That the gesture would be misinterpreted?

Eventually, I slipped it into her desk drawer during lunch. I’d love to say I did it gracefully, but the truth is I nearly knocked over her “World’s Okayest Employee” mug in my nervous fumbling and had to bite back a string of panicked swear words when someone walked past the door.

For days afterward, I found myself watching her with embarrassing intensity. When she finally mentioned the mysterious book at the tea point—”Strangest thing, someone left me a book I’ve been wanting to read, but there’s no name on it”—I managed what I hope was a convincingly casual “Oh, that’s nice” while internally experiencing what felt like a small cardiac event.

“It’s a bit weird, isn’t it?” she continued, stirring her tea. “Like, should I be worried? Is it some secret admirer thing?”

I hadn’t considered that angle. Brilliant work, Emma. Create workplace discomfort with your supposedly thoughtful gesture.

“Maybe it’s just someone who heard you mention it and wanted to do something nice?” I suggested, voice only slightly higher than normal. “You know, a random act of kindness sort of thing?”

She seemed to consider this, then shrugged. “Yeah, maybe. Still odd though.”

Not exactly the reaction I’d imagined.

But here’s where it gets interesting. Later that week, I overheard her recommending the book to someone else. “It’s absolutely brilliant,” she was saying. “The writing is just… you know when you read something and it makes you want to underline every other sentence? Like that.”

And I felt this unexpected rush of… something. Not pride exactly. More like witnessing a small piece of magic I’d helped create. The gift had taken on a life entirely separate from me or my intentions. It existed purely as itself—a book that brought someone joy, full stop.

That first anonymous gift opened a door I hadn’t known was there. For someone whose entire professional identity is built around being “The Gift Concierge”—literally the person whose name is attached to thoughtful gifting—there was something profoundly liberating about giving without any possibility of credit or acknowledgment.

Since then, I’ve become a bit obsessed with anonymous giving. Not in a weird stalkerish way (I promise), but as an experiment in the purest form of gifting—presents disconnected from obligation, reciprocity, or personal recognition.

I’ve left homemade biscuits in our building’s communal area with a note saying “Having a rough day? Have a biscuit. Having a great day? Celebrate with a biscuit.” I’ve paid for coffees for the next customer in line. I’ve sent flowers to a friend going through a divorce with just “Someone is thinking of you” on the card. I once left a carefully selected book on a train seat with a note inviting whoever found it to read and enjoy it.

These anonymous gifts are rarely expensive or elaborate. If anything, they’re simpler and more straightforward than my usual meticulously planned present strategies. But they’ve taught me something unexpected about the psychology of giving that all my research and professional experience hadn’t quite illuminated.

When you remove yourself from the equation—when there’s no thank you to receive, no gratitude to acknowledge, no social credit to collect—you’re left with the undiluted essence of why giving matters in the first place. It’s not about the giver at all. It’s about creating a moment of unexpected connection or joy for someone else.

There’s research backing this up, though I didn’t know it when I started my anonymous giving experiment. Studies in positive psychology suggest that acts of altruism where the helper remains anonymous actually produce stronger positive emotions for the giver than those where they receive recognition. It’s counterintuitive, but it makes sense the more you think about it. Without the external reward of acknowledgment, you’re left with only the intrinsic satisfaction of the act itself.

Charlie thinks my anonymous gifting has gone slightly off the deep end. Last Christmas, I created elaborate gift bundles for three families in our neighborhood who I knew were struggling financially. Each contained practical items, treats for the children, gift vouchers, and festive food. I spent weeks planning them, used cash to purchase everything, wore gloves while packaging them (yes, really), and had Charlie drive me around after dark to deliver them like some suburban Santa with anxiety issues.

“You do realize this is a bit mad, right?” he asked as we lurked in the shadows waiting for the coast to clear before leaving a package. “We look like the world’s least threatening burglars. ‘No officer, we weren’t taking things, we were leaving color-coordinated gift baskets with artisanal Christmas puddings.’”

He had a point. But the next day, when one of the families posted in our neighborhood Facebook group about the mysterious delivery and how much it meant to them, Charlie was the one who got suspiciously quiet and then suddenly needed to “check something in the garden” for ten minutes. (He cried. He won’t admit it, but he absolutely cried.)

That’s the thing about anonymous giving—it creates ripples you can’t always predict. The family’s post prompted others in the neighborhood to share similar acts of kindness they’d experienced or given. For weeks, our usually mundane community group was filled with stories of unexpected connection and generosity. All because some weirdo (me) couldn’t bear the thought of those particular children not having Christmas presents.

I’m not suggesting everyone should embrace my level of anonymous gifting intensity. There’s nothing wrong with giving in the traditional way, where your thoughtfulness is acknowledged and appreciated directly. Most of my giving still happens that way, both professionally and personally. But there’s something uniquely powerful about occasionally stepping completely out of the gift equation—becoming invisible so that the gift itself can take center stage.

It’s not always easy. I’ve had anonymous gifts fall completely flat. The carefully selected book I left in a hospital waiting room that I later found abandoned in the car park, pages damp and curling. The encouraging notes with chocolate bars I hid around my friend’s flat during a particularly hard time for her, only to learn months later that she’d assumed they were from her ex and had thrown them away unopened. The anonymous donation to a colleague’s charity fundraiser that accidentally caused office-wide speculation and gossip about a “secret admirer.”

Anonymous giving requires surrendering control of the narrative. You don’t get to explain your intentions or clarify misunderstandings. You don’t get to witness the moment of reception or bask in expressions of gratitude. You have to be comfortable with uncertainty, with the possibility that your gift might be misinterpreted or even completely missed.

But when it works—when you glimpse from a distance the smile on someone’s face, or hear through the grapevine how much a small kindness brightened someone’s day—there’s a peculiar kind of joy that feels different from any other giving experience. It’s quieter, more private. Less about the social performance of generosity and more about the simple act of adding something good to the world without needing your name attached to it.

I’ve found myself thinking about this a lot lately in our hyper-documented era, where acts of kindness or generosity are so often performed for social media. How many charitable donations come with Instagram posts? How many good deeds are filmed and uploaded for likes and shares? There’s an argument that publicizing generosity encourages others to follow suit, and I think that’s valid. But I also wonder if we’re losing something important when every act of giving comes with public acknowledgment.

My anonymous giving practice has become a kind of meditation on what matters most about gifting. Without the possibility of recognition or thanks, I’m forced to focus entirely on the recipient’s experience—on what might bring them joy or comfort or a moment of surprise in their day. It’s gift-giving in its purest form, stripped of social obligation and expectation.

Last month, my colleague finally finished “The Secret History.” I know because she mentioned it in our team meeting, saying she was looking for recommendations for what to read next because she’d so enjoyed “that mysterious book someone left me ages ago.”

I had the perfect suggestion ready—another novel by an author with a similar style. But instead of offering it directly, I found myself making a mental note to find a secondhand copy and leave it anonymously, just like the first.

“No ideas?” she asked when I didn’t speak up.

“Oh, I’m sure the book fairy will strike again if you’re patient,” I said, trying to sound casual.

She gave me a long, considering look, and for a moment I thought I’d given myself away. But she just smiled slightly and said, “Maybe they will.”

Perhaps she knows it’s me. Perhaps she doesn’t. What matters is that somewhere in our office building, a connection exists that’s based not on social obligation or reciprocity, but on books and stories and the simple pleasure of giving without the need for recognition.

And somehow, that feels like the most valuable gift of all.

I’ve been to thirty-four weddings in the past decade. That’s thirty-four toasts I’ve politely endured, thirty-four slices of cake I’ve dutifully eaten (some significantly better than others), and—most relevant to my professional interests—thirty-four gifts I’ve carefully selected for people embarking on matrimonial adventures. In the process, I’ve developed some rather strong feelings about wedding gifts and the curious social ecosystem they inhabit.

Let’s be honest about registry culture, shall we? There’s something simultaneously practical and deeply strange about the entire enterprise. Couples literally create shopping lists for their loved ones, selecting items from predetermined corporate collections at specific price points. Guests then purchase these pre-approved items, often without ever seeing them in person, to be shipped directly to the recipients with minimal personal involvement beyond entering credit card details. It’s efficient, yes—but also oddly transactional for what should be one of the most personal and emotionally significant celebrations in our social calendar.

This tension came into sharp focus for me five years ago, when my oldest friend Jessica was getting married. We’d known each other since we were six, had shared every significant life experience from first periods to first heartbreaks, and yet when it came time to select her wedding gift, I found myself staring blankly at her John Lewis registry, mouse hovering uncertainly over a perfectly serviceable but thoroughly soulless set of towels in a shade diplomatically described as “stone.”

“This can’t be right,” I remember thinking. “Twenty-three years of friendship and I’m commemorating her marriage with… beige bath linens?”

The registry listed the towels as “most wanted,” and I understood the practical value of giving newlyweds household essentials. But something about the disconnection between the depth of our relationship and the impersonality of the gift felt jarring. It wasn’t that the towels themselves were problematic—it was that they failed to capture anything specific about Jessica, her partner Mark, or my relationship with them. These towels could have been given to absolutely any couple on the planet without a single modification.

That’s when I developed what I now think of as my “Something Blue” approach to wedding gifts—a philosophy that honors the traditional registry system while finding thoughtful ways to personalize and elevate the giving experience. The name comes, of course, from the old wedding rhyme about “something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.” That traditional verse recognizes something important that modern registries often miss: the need for both the practical and the meaningful, the conventional and the personal, in marking major life transitions.

My approach isn’t about ignoring registries entirely—that would be imposing my gift-giving philosophy at the expense of the couple’s expressed wishes, which defeats the purpose of thoughtful giving. Instead, it’s about finding the sweet spot between honoring their requests and adding a layer of personality and connection that transforms a transaction into something more meaningful.

Here’s how it works: I select something practical from the registry—fulfilling the couple’s actual needs and wishes—and then pair it with a complementary “something blue.” This second item is personal, unexpected, and chosen specifically to reflect my relationship with the couple or to enhance the use or meaning of the registry item. It doesn’t literally have to be blue (though sometimes it is); rather, the “blue” represents the element of surprise, personality, and emotional connection that standard registry items often lack.

For Jessica and Mark, I bought those stone-colored towels from their registry. But I also commissioned a small watercolor painting of the beach in Cornwall where we’d spent summers as teenagers and where, coincidentally, Mark had proposed. I had it framed to hang in their bathroom—a personal touch that transformed the utilitarian towels into part of a more meaningful daily experience. Every time they reached for those practical towels, they’d see the painting and be reminded not just of their engagement but of the deeper history that led to that moment.

“The towels are perfect,” Jessica told me later. “But that painting—every morning I see it and think of you and all those summers. It’s like having a piece of our friendship in our daily routine.”

That reaction confirmed what I’d suspected: registry items meet practical needs, but it’s the personal touches that create daily moments of connection and meaning. Since then, I’ve refined this approach through dozens of weddings, discovering that the most successful “something blue” additions tend to fall into a few distinct categories:

Experience enhancers are items that elevate the use or enjoyment of the registry gift. For my colleagues Sarah and Deepak, I purchased the wine glasses from their registry but added a handwritten book of cocktail recipes collected from friends and family, including the signature drink from their first date and contributions from relatives who couldn’t attend the wedding. The glasses met their practical need; the recipe book transformed everyday drinks into opportunities to connect with their wider community.

Memory anchors connect the practical item to significant shared experiences or important relationships. When my cousin married a man she’d met while working in Japan, I bought the Japanese-style serving platters from their registry but added a set of hand-carved chopstick rests I’d found in the specific Kyoto neighborhood where they’d had their first date. The platters were useful, but the chopstick rests told a story that was uniquely theirs.

Future-focused additions anticipate how the registry item might feature in the couple’s evolving relationship. For friends who registered for high-end camping equipment, I included a handmade journal with maps of spectacular camping locations across the UK, with spaces to record their future adventures together. The gift acknowledged not just their current needs but the experiences that lay ahead of them.

The key insight behind this approach is recognizing that the best wedding gifts operate on multiple levels: they meet practical needs while also honoring the couple’s past, celebrating their present connection, and looking forward to their shared future. Registry items typically excel at the practical but often miss these emotional dimensions.

Of course, this approach requires more thought and effort than simply selecting an item online and having it shipped directly. But I’ve found the additional investment creates a much richer giving experience for everyone involved. The couple receives something they actually need along with something meaningfully personal. As the giver, I enjoy the satisfaction of genuine connection rather than mere obligation fulfillment. And the gift itself becomes part of the couple’s ongoing story rather than just another possession.

Some practical considerations if you’re interested in adopting this approach:

Budget management is important. Adding a personal element doesn’t necessarily mean spending beyond your means. Often the “something blue” can be handcrafted, curated from meaningful but inexpensive items, or based on shared experiences rather than expensive purchases. For my budget-conscious friend’s wedding, I bought the moderately priced dinner plates from her registry and added a collection of handwritten recipe cards featuring meals we’d shared over the years—significantly more meaningful than upgrading to the expensive plates alone would have been.

Presentation matters more with this approach, since you’re often combining items that don’t naturally “go together” in conventional gift packaging. I’ve become rather adept at creative gift assembly, using everything from vintage hatboxes to Japanese furoshiki cloth wrapping techniques to create visually cohesive presentations for eclectic gift combinations. The effort put into presentation signals the thoughtfulness behind the gift itself.

Timing can be tricky when combining registry and non-registry items. I typically purchase the registry item first to ensure it doesn’t get bought by someone else, then focus on creating the personal addition. For items being shipped directly to the couple, I sometimes send a note mentioning that a complementary gift will follow, maintaining the surprise while preventing confusion.

The approach works best when you have genuine personal connection with the couple. For more distant relationships—colleagues you don’t know well, for instance—it might be more appropriate to stick with registry items alone rather than presuming a level of personal connection that doesn’t actually exist. Not every wedding gift needs to be deeply meaningful; sometimes a good quality toaster is genuinely all that’s required or expected.

I’ve found this “Something Blue” philosophy particularly valuable for navigating the sometimes awkward territory of group gifts. When several friends contribute to a larger registry item, the personal element can get lost entirely in the transaction. Adding a collaborative “something blue” brings back the emotional connection. For our friend group’s contribution to a pricey kitchen mixer, we created a small recipe book where each contributor shared a recipe that required the mixer, along with a memory or wish for the couple. The registry item provided function; our collective personal addition provided meaning.

Wedding gift registries aren’t inherently problematic—they serve an important practical purpose in helping couples establish their shared homes with items they’ve thoughtfully selected. The issue arises when we treat registries as the entire gift-giving landscape rather than just one element of it. By complementing registry selections with personal touches, we create a more balanced giving experience that honors both practical needs and emotional connections.

The most striking feedback I’ve received about this approach came from my friend Oliver, whom I’d known since university. For his wedding to James, I purchased the high-end coffee machine they’d registered for (Oliver is incapable of human function before his morning coffee) and added a set of two handmade mugs commissioned from a potter in the Scottish town where we’d gone on a memorable post-graduation holiday. Inside each mug, I had the potter inscribe a private joke from that trip.

“We use the coffee machine every morning,” Oliver told me months later, “but those mugs have become part of our daily ritual. James knows they’re significant but doesn’t know the full story, so I get to share different pieces of that holiday with him over time. It’s like you gave us not just coffee equipment but a way to keep sharing our histories.”

That’s exactly what the best wedding gifts do: they honor the practical foundation of building a life together while creating space for the stories, memories, and connections that give that life its meaning. The registry items represent the “something new” of the traditional rhyme—the fresh start, the practical foundations. The personalized additions serve as the “something blue”—the touch of the unexpected, the emotional, the uniquely meaningful.

In a wedding culture increasingly dominated by standardization and efficiency, this balanced approach reconnects gift-giving with its deeper purpose: not just checking an obligation box, but participating in the creation of a shared life with all its practical requirements and emotional resonances. It acknowledges that while couples may need new towels and toasters, what they’re really building is a web of stories, rituals, and connections that will sustain them through the complexities of married life.

So the next time you find yourself staring at a wedding registry, feeling that disconnect between the depth of your relationship and the impersonality of a stand mixer or serving platter, consider the “Something Blue” approach. Honor their practical needs through the registry, yes—but also look for that complementary personal element that transforms a mere transaction into a meaningful contribution to their shared story. Because while no one reminisces fondly about who gave them their salad spinner, they’ll remember for decades the person who paired it with something that made them laugh, cry, or feel genuinely seen on the threshold of their married life.

I remember the exact moment I realized how complicated gift-giving could be within friend groups with varied financial situations. We were celebrating my university friend Priya’s birthday at this little Italian place in Birmingham. Eight of us squeezed around a table meant for six, wine flowing, everyone laughing. Then came the gift-giving portion of the evening. I’d spent weeks finding her the perfect vintage cookbook (she was obsessed with 1950s American baking), hunting through charity shops until I found one in decent condition for about £15. I’d wrapped it beautifully in paper I’d block-printed myself with tiny rolling pins and whisks.

Then Jamie, who’d just started his banking job in London, casually handed over a small bag from Liberty. Inside was a cashmere scarf that I knew for a fact cost north of £150 because I’d been eyeing the exact same one myself but couldn’t remotely justify the expense on my student budget. The look that flashed across Priya’s face—delight quickly followed by what I can only describe as social panic—has stayed with me for years. She gushed appropriately, but I noticed how her hands lingered a bit longer on each subsequent gift, as if trying to equalize her reactions regardless of monetary value.

Later that night, walking back to our student house, Lisa (who’d given Priya a homemade birthday cake) whispered to me, “Well, that makes the rest of us look a bit rubbish, doesn’t it?” The comment had an edge to it—not quite resentment, but definitely discomfort. Meanwhile, Jamie had headed back to his hotel completely unaware of the emotional ripples his generous gift had created.

That evening was my first real encounter with the awkward dance that happens when people with different financial realities exchange gifts within the same social circle. In the years since, as my friends’ career paths have diverged wildly—some becoming high-flying professionals while others chose meaningful but modestly paid work in the public sector or creative fields—I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how to navigate these waters without anyone feeling uncomfortable, inadequate, or resentful.

The first thing I’ve learned is that addressing the elephant in the room can be incredibly helpful, but it needs to be done with sensitivity and usually pre-emptively. About five years after university, our same friend group had scattered across the country but still met up for birthdays and Christmas when possible. By this point, the income gaps had widened considerably. Before one Christmas gathering, I sent a group message suggesting we set a £20 limit for our gift exchange “so we can focus on thoughtfulness rather than cost.” I was terrified it would come across as patronizing or awkward, but the relief was palpable in the responses. “Oh thank god,” texted Sophie, who was working for a non-profit and living on beans most days. Even Melissa, who’d just made partner at her law firm, seemed grateful for the clarity.

Setting price limits works brilliantly when you can establish them in advance, but life isn’t always that organized. Birthday celebrations often happen spontaneously, or new people join established groups. This is where the second strategy comes in: focusing on personalization and thoughtfulness that transcends monetary value. A gift that clearly demonstrates you’ve been paying attention to someone’s interests, passions, or needs carries its own currency that can often outweigh the price tag.

My friend David, a primary school teacher, is a master at this. Despite being perpetually skint, he gives the most remarkably personal gifts I’ve ever seen. For my 30th birthday, while others in our circle gave me expensive champagne or spa vouchers, David presented me with a small box containing dozens of tiny paper scrolls. Each one had a specific memory he had of our ten-year friendship, written in his nearly illegible scrawl. Some were hilarious (“The time you tried to convince that bloke in the pub you were Swedish and couldn’t drop the accent for THREE HOURS”), others surprisingly moving (“When you came to my mum’s funeral and knew exactly when to make me laugh”). It cost him nothing but time and remains the most precious gift I’ve received.

David’s approach illustrated something important: when there’s a financial disparity between friends, leaning into your personal connection rather than trying to match spending creates a different kind of value economy. I’ve adopted this philosophy wholeheartedly. For friends with higher incomes than mine, I focus on finding or creating something they couldn’t simply buy themselves. For those with tighter budgets, I try to ensure my gifts never feel like they’re highlighting the income gap between us.

But there’s another dynamic that often goes unaddressed in these situations—the discomfort of being on the receiving end when you suspect someone has spent more than they can comfortably afford. Two Christmases ago, my friend Sonia, who was between jobs and struggling, gave me a gorgeous leather journal that I knew must have stretched her budget painfully. I felt awful opening it, imagining her sacrificing essential things to maintain gift parity within our circle.

This experience taught me another important lesson: transparent communication goes both ways. I started being more upfront about my own preferences. “This year, I’d honestly love if we just went for a proper catch-up lunch instead of gifts,” I told Sonia the following year. “I miss our conversations more than anything.” The look of relief on her face was unmistakable, and our four-hour lunch, splitting the bill for a modestly priced meal, felt more meaningful than any wrapped present.

Group gifting is another strategy that works brilliantly for navigating financial disparities, particularly for significant life events like weddings or baby showers. When my wealthier friend Aisha got married, those of us with varying budgets pooled our resources for one meaningful gift rather than creating an unintentional display of our income differences through individually wrapped presents. This approach allows everyone to participate at their comfort level without it being obvious who contributed what.

I’ve found that creating gifting traditions that deliberately circumvent financial comparisons also helps. For several years now, my university friends have done a Christmas book exchange where the rule is the book must be second-hand and personally meaningful to the giver in some way. The price ceiling is naturally limited, but the focus becomes the inscription explaining why you’ve chosen this particular book for this particular person. Some of the most dog-eared charity shop finds have become the most coveted gifts in this tradition.

There’s another approach that’s worked well within certain friend groups: skill-based gifting. In one circle of friends, we’ve informally adopted a system where we give gifts based on our personal skills or access. My friend who works at a theatre gets us tickets to preview nights. Another who’s a talented baker makes incredible birthday cakes. I often offer gift selection services for people’s partners or parents (complete with handwritten cards with prompts for what to write—apparently not everyone keeps detailed notes on their loved ones’ preferences like I do). Our photographer friend does family photoshoots. This system acknowledges that we all have different resources—not just financial ones—and creates a more nuanced economy of giving.

Of course, there are always those awkward moments you can’t entirely prevent. Last Christmas, at a gathering with friends from different parts of my life, I watched uncomfortably as an old school friend (now a successful surgeon) gave out presents that clearly cost ten times what others had spent. The discomfort in the room was palpable. Later, I gently mentioned to her that while her generosity was lovely, it had inadvertently made some people feel awkward about their own more modest offerings. “But I can afford it, and I wanted to get nice things for everyone,” she said, genuinely puzzled.

This conversation highlighted something important: awareness of financial disparities isn’t intuitive for everyone. Some people, particularly those who’ve always had financial security, simply don’t register the social complexities their generosity might create. My surgeon friend wasn’t being deliberately showy; she just hadn’t considered how her gifts might make others feel. Our chat prompted her to suggest a Secret Santa for this year’s Christmas gathering—one person, one thoughtful gift, no uncomfortable comparisons.

I think what makes this territory so tricky is that money remains such a taboo subject, even among close friends. We’re trained not to discuss our incomes or financial struggles openly, which means gift exchanges can become laden with unspoken assumptions and anxieties. Breaking through this taboo, even in small ways like suggesting spending limits or alternative gifting approaches, creates space for more authentic connections that aren’t undermined by financial insecurities.

There’s also the reality that life transitions affect our financial situations unpredictably. Friends who were once in similar circumstances find themselves in very different positions due to career choices, family support, health challenges, or pure luck. Gift-giving traditions that worked when we were all broke students or all starting our careers need to evolve as our circumstances diverge. Being flexible and revisiting expectations regularly helps prevent the awkwardness that comes from outdated assumptions.

I’ve noticed too that different cultural backgrounds within friend groups can complicate things further. My friend Mei comes from a Chinese family where generous gifting is deeply tied to respect and relationship maintenance. When she gives lavish presents, it’s a cultural expression, not a status display. Understanding these differences has helped our friend group appreciate rather than feel uncomfortable about her generosity, while she’s come to understand that when her British friends give more modest gifts, it’s not a reflection of how they value her.

One particularly useful approach I’ve found is creating occasions where the gift isn’t material at all. My birthday celebration last year was a picnic in Richmond Park where I asked friends to bring a favorite poem or passage to read aloud. The resulting afternoon was deeply moving, completely equalized financial differences, and gave me insights into my friends that no purchased gift could have provided.

If there’s one overarching principle I’ve found helpful, it’s remembering that the purpose of gift-giving among friends is to strengthen connections, not to fulfill obligations or demonstrate status. When we lose sight of this, gifts become burdens rather than expressions of affection. Some of my wealthier friends have learned that sometimes the most thoughtful “gift” is picking up the lunch tab without making a fuss about it, rather than presenting a wrapped item that might create discomfort. Some friends with creative talents have realized that offering their skills—designing a website for a friend’s new business venture, for instance—provides something that money literally cannot buy.

The British awkwardness around money doesn’t help any of this, of course. We’re masters of the silent flinch, the quickly masked expression, the changing of subjects when things get financially uncomfortable. But I’ve found that gentle, thoughtful conversations about gift-giving expectations have never once damaged a friendship and have frequently strengthened them. Most people are relieved to have clarity.

In the end, navigating gift-giving between friends with different financial realities comes down to emotional intelligence and intentionality. It’s about creating systems and traditions that allow everyone to participate with dignity, that recognize the many different forms of generosity beyond monetary value, and that put connection at the center of the exchange. When we get it right, gifts become what they’re meant to be—expressions of affection and understanding, not measures of financial worth or causes of social anxiety. And that, ultimately, is the greatest gift we can offer each other: the freedom to give from the heart without fear of judgment or comparison.

The moment I knew my gift documentation system had potentially crossed into slightly weird territory was at my friend Lisa’s birthday dinner three years ago. I’d given her a vintage cocktail book from the 1920s, knowing she’d recently developed an obsession with pre-Prohibition era drinks. As she unwrapped it, I found myself reaching for my phone under the table, ready to surreptitiously note her reaction. That’s when her husband James caught my eye from across the table.

“Are you… taking notes?” he asked, eyebrows somewhere near his hairline.

A mortifying silence fell over the table as everyone turned to stare at me, phone half-hidden in my lap.

“I just… I keep track of gifts. To know what works for next time,” I stammered, feeling my face turn approximately the shade of the red velvet cake waiting in the kitchen.

Lisa, bless her, burst out laughing. “Of course you do. That’s why you always give the perfect presents. You’re basically running a gift research program with us as your unwitting subjects!”

She meant it affectionately, but the phrase “unwitting subjects” stuck with me. Had my lifelong obsession with giving the perfect gift tipped over from thoughtful into something more… surveillance-like? Was I reducing my loved ones to data points in some bizarre personal CRM system? The thought was uncomfortable enough that it sent me home that night to seriously reconsider my approach.

I’ve kept gift journals since I was eight years old. What started as a glittery purple notebook filled with childish observations (“Dad hates argyle socks!!”) has evolved over the decades into a comprehensive system of notebooks, digital files, and, yes, occasionally surreptitious notes taken on my phone during gift-opening moments. The system has served me well—I rarely give a truly unsuccessful gift these days—but Lisa’s birthday forced me to confront the fine line between thoughtful record-keeping and, well, being a bit creepy about it all.

After some serious reflection (and consultation with Charlie, who confirmed that yes, secretly documenting people’s reactions to presents is “a bit much, love”), I’ve developed what I think is a more balanced approach. I still keep meticulous gift records because I genuinely believe they help me be a more thoughtful friend and family member. But I’ve established some ethical boundaries and practices that keep the system from veering into uncomfortable territory.

First, let me explain what I actually track, because it’s not quite the comprehensive surveillance program Lisa jokingly described. For each person in my close circle, I maintain a simple record with a few key components: gift ideas I’ve collected throughout the year (things they’ve mentioned wanting, interests they’ve expressed, problems they’ve complained about that a gift might solve); gifts I’ve given in the past with brief notes on how they were received; and general preference notes (loves anything blue, hates scented candles, allergic to wool, etc.).

The “how they were received” part is what had become potentially problematic. I’d gotten into the habit of noting very specific reactions—whether someone displayed the item in their home months later, how often they wore the jumper I’d given them, whether they ever mentioned using the kitchen gadget. This level of detail helped me refine future choices, but I came to realize it also represented a kind of ongoing gift assessment that the recipients had never consented to.

My revised approach maintains the usefulness of tracking gift successes and failures while respecting people’s privacy and agency. Here’s how it works now:

Instead of secretly documenting reactions, I’ve made my process more transparent. My close friends and family now know I keep gift notes. Not in a weird “I’m watching your every move” way, but in casual conversation: “I’m trying to keep better track of what works as gifts—would you mind telling me if you’re still enjoying that recipe book I got you last Christmas?” This simple shift from covert observation to open conversation has transformed the dynamic entirely.

Surprisingly, people are usually delighted to provide feedback when asked directly. It turns out most folks appreciate that someone cares enough to want to give them things they’ll genuinely enjoy. Lisa now voluntarily sends me texts when she makes a cocktail from “that brilliant book,” often with photos and reviews. This freely offered information feels entirely different from my previous detective work.

I’ve also simplified my documentation considerably. Rather than detailed notes on every reaction nuance, I now use a simple three-category system: direct hit (enthusiastically received and definitely used/enjoyed), miss (politely received but clearly not exciting or useful), or unclear (couldn’t really tell from reaction). This prevents me from overanalyzing every facial expression like some gift-giving Sherlock Holmes.

For the direct hits, I make note of what specifically worked about the gift—was it the aesthetic, the functionality, the sentiment? This helps me identify patterns in what people truly value. For the misses, I try to honestly assess what went wrong without making excuses. Was I projecting my own preferences? Did I misinterpret something they said? This reflection makes me a better gift-giver over time without requiring ongoing surveillance.

The “unclear” category is where my new approach really differs. Previously, I would have embarked on a subtle investigation—casually dropping the gift into conversation months later or looking for evidence of it during visits. Now, I simply let it go. If someone doesn’t volunteer information about whether they liked something, that’s their prerogative. Not everything needs to be analyzed, and people deserve the privacy to quietly donate, regift, or drawer-bury presents that didn’t quite hit the mark.

This revised system maintains the core benefit of my record-keeping—helping me give gifts that genuinely resonate—while respecting boundaries. But beyond the practical aspects, I’ve developed some ethical principles around gift documentation that guide my approach:

People’s preferences are not static data points. My brother loved astronomy as a teenager, but his interests have evolved considerably since then. Instead of relying on historical records, I make a point of refreshing my understanding of people’s current passions through actual conversations. Gift notes should support genuine connection, not replace it.

Context matters enormously. A gift that’s perfect in one situation might be completely wrong in another. When my friend Sophie was going through a difficult divorce, the luxurious bath products that would normally have delighted her sat unused because her temporary flat only had a shower. My notes now include relevant life circumstances that might affect how a gift is received.

The relationship is always more important than the perfect gift. If maintaining detailed records starts to make interactions feel transactional or research-oriented, it’s missing the point entirely. I’ve learned to be present in the moment of giving rather than mentally filing away reactions for future reference.

Not everyone wants to be surprised. While I used to pride myself on finding the unexpected perfect gift, I’ve learned that some people genuinely prefer to receive items from their wish lists or things they’ve explicitly mentioned wanting. My husband Charlie, for instance, appreciates thoughtful surprises for birthdays but prefers to choose exactly what he wants for Christmas. Respecting these preferences is more important than proving my gift-selecting prowess.

Gift privacy works both ways. Just as I’ve become more transparent about my record-keeping, I’ve also become more respectful of people’s right to privacy about whether they use or enjoy gifts. No one should feel monitored or obligated to perform ongoing gratitude to avoid hurting a giver’s feelings.

With these principles in mind, my gift documentation has become less about creating perfect dossiers on everyone I know and more about supporting meaningful connections through thoughtful giving. I still maintain my records, but they’re now a tool rather than an obsession.

Some practical tips I’ve found helpful for anyone wanting to keep track of gift successes without veering into creepy territory:

Create dedicated spaces for gift ideas as they occur to you. I use a notes app with a separate note for each close friend and family member. When someone mentions loving a particular author or needing a specific item, I can quickly jot it down without making it a big deal. This in-the-moment recording is far more accurate than trying to remember offhand comments months later.

After major gift-giving occasions like Christmas or birthdays, take ten minutes for a quick reflection while the experience is fresh. What seemed to genuinely delight people? What got a more muted response? These observations, written down immediately, are more valuable than detailed surveillance in the months that follow.

If you’re unsure about how a gift was received, it’s absolutely fine to ask—once, casually, and without putting the person on the spot. “Did that jumper fit okay?” or “Have you had a chance to use that coffee grinder?” opens the door for feedback without demanding it. If they give a vague answer, accept it gracefully and move on.

When someone tells you they loved a particular gift, take note of why. Often the reasons are surprising and reveal something deeper about their preferences than the specific item itself. My mother-in-law once told me a cookbook I’d given her was her favorite present that year not because of the recipes but because the photography reminded her of her childhood home. That insight was far more valuable than knowing whether she made the actual dishes.

Remember that gift failures provide valuable information too. I keep track of my misses just as carefully as my hits, which has helped me identify blind spots in my giving. For years, I gave my father books related to his professional field, receiving polite but unenthusiastic thanks. It was only after a particularly honest conversation that I learned he specifically didn’t want to read about work during his leisure time—a preference I’d completely misinterpreted.

Consider keeping separate records for what people have told you directly versus what you’ve observed or inferred. Direct statements (“I collect vintage teapots”) are reliable gift guides. Inferences (“She wore that blue scarf I gave her three times in one week”) are more speculative and should be weighted accordingly.

If your note-taking starts to feel secretive or uncomfortable, that’s a good sign you’ve crossed a line. Gift records should feel like a resource for thoughtfulness, not a covert intelligence operation. If you wouldn’t be comfortable with the person reading what you’ve written about their preferences, you should probably reconsider your approach.

Perhaps the most important lesson I’ve learned is that the best gift insights come from genuine connection, not systematic observation. When I’m truly present in conversations, when I listen with authentic interest rather than gift-seeking intent, I naturally absorb information about what matters to people. The notes are just memory aids for these authentic moments, not substitutes for them.

That dinner at Lisa’s marked a turning point in how I approach my gift documentation. I still keep my records, but I do it with more transparency, more respect for privacy, and a clearer understanding of the line between thoughtful and intrusive. When I gave her a set of vintage cocktail glasses to complement the book for her birthday this year, I didn’t reach for my phone under the table. Instead, I simply enjoyed her genuine delight in the moment. Later that evening, she texted me a photo of the glasses filled with an experimental manhattan, with the caption “Perfect gift as usual! I know this is going in your database. Grade: A+.”

She was right, of course. It did go in my records. But now it’s there with her full knowledge and good-natured consent—a data point freely given rather than secretly collected. And somehow, that makes all the difference.

There are few gift-giving scenarios that induce quite the same level of cold sweat as having to select a present for someone you deeply respect but don’t know terribly well. That awkward territory where admiration meets uncertainty—where you want to make a good impression but lack the intimate knowledge of their preferences that makes gift selection feel secure. I’ve been there. Actually, I’m there more often than I’d like, given my tendency to develop intense professional admiration for people followed by a desperate desire to acknowledge them with the perfect gift.

Take my first meeting with Charlie’s parents, six months into our relationship. Charlie had spent weeks telling me how brilliant his father was—Cambridge-educated engineer, passionate jazz pianist, fluent in three languages. By the time we were due to visit, I’d built this man up in my head to mythical proportions. What on earth do you get for someone whose interests sound like the CV of a Renaissance man? I spent hours agonizing, discarding ideas, second-guessing myself. In the end, I panic-bought an expensive bottle of single malt whisky (despite having no confirmation he even liked whisky) and a book about the history of jazz (despite not knowing which volumes he already owned).

When we arrived, Charlie casually mentioned the gifts. His father looked genuinely touched but slightly puzzled. “That’s very kind,” he said, examining the whisky, “though I’m more of a gin man myself these days—doctor’s orders about the sugar.” The jazz book earned a polite nod. “I think I might have a similar one upstairs, but this looks fascinating too.” I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. Later, I discovered that what he really loved was growing chilli peppers on his kitchen windowsill and watching bad science fiction films—neither of which had featured in Charlie’s glowing descriptions or my imagined version of this intellectual titan.

That experience taught me a crucial lesson about gifting to people we admire but don’t know well: our admiration often creates a distorted image that has little to do with who they actually are as humans with ordinary preferences and quirks. We gift to the idea of them rather than the reality.

Since that mortifying evening (which Charlie still teases me about), I’ve developed a much more effective approach to these tricky gifting situations, whether they involve impressive new in-laws, professional mentors, or your child’s brilliant teacher who you desperately want to acknowledge properly at the end of term.

The first principle is deceptively simple: acknowledge the limits of your knowledge. This sounds obvious, but it’s psychologically difficult. When we admire someone, we want to demonstrate that we “get” them, that our admiration is based on genuine understanding. Accepting that we don’t actually know them well enough for a highly personalized gift can feel like admitting failure, but it’s actually the foundation of a much more authentic approach.

This principle saved me when I needed to find a gift for my new editor at British Celebrations. After she took a chance on me and my unconventional approach to gift writing, I was desperate to show my appreciation with the perfect present. I caught myself heading down a rabbit hole of investigation, trying to deduce her preferences from her sparse social media and offhand comments in meetings. Then I stopped and asked myself: what do I actually know for certain? I knew she was a brilliant editor who had shown faith in my work. I knew she loved independent magazines and good writing. And that was… pretty much it.

Rather than pretending to a level of personal knowledge I didn’t have, I embraced what our relationship actually was. I found a beautiful notebook from a small London stationer and wrote a heartfelt note about how much her editorial guidance had meant to me, citing specific examples of how she’d improved my work. The gift was a nod to our shared professional world, and the note acknowledged the actual basis of our connection. Her response was warm and genuine in a way I suspect wouldn’t have happened if I’d tried to guess at her personal preferences and gotten it wrong.

This leads to my second principle: focus on the authentic nature of your connection. With people we admire but don’t know well, there’s usually a specific context in which we know them—professional, academic, as an in-law, as a friend’s partner. Rather than trying to leap over this contextual relationship into fake intimacy, lean into the genuine connection you do have.

My friend Sophia got this exactly right when buying for her doctoral supervisor, whom she deeply respected but knew little about personally. Rather than guessing at his interests outside academia, she found a first-edition copy of an obscure philosophy paper they’d discussed in her first supervision—one that had fundamentally shaped her thinking. It acknowledged their academic relationship and showed she valued their intellectual exchanges without presuming greater familiarity.

The third principle is perhaps the most practical: when in doubt, consumables rarely miss the mark. Food and drink that can be shared or items that get used up don’t carry the same burden as permanent objects that might not match someone’s taste or needs. The key is to make these consumable gifts feel special and considered rather than generic.

When my literary agent Mira sold my book proposal after months of hard work, I wanted to thank her properly. Though we had a great professional relationship, I had little insight into her personal life or home decor preferences. I knew she was based in Edinburgh and had once mentioned enjoying the city’s independent shops. Rather than guessing at a permanent item she might not like, I researched small Edinburgh producers and created a hamper of artisanal items from her own city—small-batch gin, hand-made chocolates, locally roasted coffee, and Scottish shortbread from a tiny bakery. The gift acknowledged our professional victory while also recognizing her location and supporting local businesses she might already enjoy.

This approach has served me well with new in-laws (local specialties from where you live, presented as a cultural exchange rather than a presumption about their tastes), children’s teachers (consumables for the staff room with a specific note about their impact on your child), and new bosses (something related to a work achievement you’ve shared, rather than their personal life you know little about).

The fourth principle requires swallowing a bit of pride: it’s perfectly acceptable to do some diplomatic reconnaissance. There’s often someone in the admired person’s circle who knows them better than you do. Charlie would have been the obvious source of intelligence about his father’s actual interests, had I thought to press him for more mundane details rather than accepting his highlight reel of achievements.

When my cousin got engaged to a woman I’d only met twice but needed to buy a birthday gift for, I simply asked my cousin directly: “I’d love to get Sarah something she’d really like—what’s she into at the moment?” This isn’t cheating; it’s acknowledging the relationship as it actually is. His insider knowledge led me to a pottery workshop voucher that aligned with her newfound interest in ceramics—something I’d never have guessed from our brief meetings where we’d mostly discussed wedding plans.

The fifth principle is about presentation and explanation. When giving to someone you admire but don’t know intimately, how you present the gift and explain your thinking becomes especially important. A thoughtful note that acknowledges the nature of your connection and explains why you chose what you did transforms even a relatively simple gift into something more meaningful.

When I needed a thank-you gift for a senior editor who had given me valuable career advice during a brief mentoring session, I wasn’t presumptuous enough to think I knew her personal preferences after a single professional meeting. I chose a beautiful notebook (yes, I do give a lot of notebooks—occupational hazard for a writer) but made it special through my note, which detailed the specific advice she’d given that had helped me, how I’d implemented it, and the positive outcomes that had resulted. It showed I had genuinely valued and used her guidance, which was ultimately more meaningful than any object could have been.

The sixth principle is one I’ve adopted more recently: consider experience gifts that acknowledge shared interests without presuming to know their specific tastes. This has been particularly successful with my new father-in-law (yes, Charlie and I got married last year, and yes, his father and I now laugh about the whisky incident).

Rather than buying him objects, I’ve found that tickets to events related to interests I know he has—jazz performances, science lectures, botanical garden exhibitions for his chilli pepper obsession—work beautifully. These gifts acknowledge what I do know about him without pretending to an intimate knowledge of his preferences in physical items. They also create opportunities for shared experiences and conversation, deepening the relationship organically.

There’s another dimension to gifting to people we admire but don’t know well that deserves mention: the anxiety around gift value. There’s often concern about getting the financial calibration right—neither insultingly cheap nor uncomfortably extravagant. This is particularly acute in professional contexts, where power dynamics can make gift-giving fraught.

My approach here is to focus on thoughtfulness and specificity rather than monetary value. A modestly priced item that shows careful consideration of the relationship as it actually exists will almost always be better received than an expensive gift that feels generic or presumptuous.

When I was invited to speak at a conference organized by a writer I’d admired for years but never met, I wanted to bring a thank-you gift that acknowledged her influence on my work without seeming obsequious. Rather than something costly, I found a vintage postcard featuring the obscure literary location she’d written about in the article that had first introduced me to her work. I framed it simply and included a note explaining how that particular piece had shaped my thinking. It cost less than £15 all in, but the specificity made it meaningful in a way an expensive generic gift could never have been.

There’s one final principle I’ve come to value: sometimes, the most respectful gift is simply sincere words of appreciation. We often feel pressure to manifest our admiration in material form, but for many people—especially those in mentoring or teaching roles—knowing they’ve made a genuine impact is the most meaningful gift of all.

My most treasured professional “gift” was a detailed email from a reader explaining how my advice had helped her find the perfect present for her difficult-to-buy-for father, healing a long-standing tension in their relationship. No physical gift has ever meant more to me than that message. I try to remember this when I’m tempted to buy something for someone I admire primarily to ease my own anxiety about adequately expressing appreciation.

So if you’re currently sweating over what to get for your brilliant new boss, your child’s inspiring teacher, your partner’s parents, or anyone else you respect but don’t know well, take a breath. Accept the relationship as it actually is. Focus on your genuine connection. Consider consumables or experiences over objects that require intimate knowledge of taste. Do a bit of reconnaissance if appropriate. Write a meaningful note explaining your choice. And remember that sincere appreciation often matters more than the material gift itself.

Oh, and for what it’s worth, Charlie’s father now receives a different homemade chilli sauce from around the world every Christmas, and he tells me it’s the highlight of his gift-opening experience. Sometimes the perfect gift is hiding on a kitchen windowsill, not in a rare whisky or a jazz history book. And there’s no way to know that unless you’re willing to see the actual person behind the pedestal you’ve put them on.

Three years ago, my friend Diane called me in tears. Her youngest had just left for university, and she was standing in his emptied bedroom, feeling utterly unmoored. “Everyone keeps saying ‘congratulations’ like I’ve accomplished something wonderful,” she said. “But nobody acknowledges that I’m also losing something huge. Eighteen years of my life just… ended. And there’s no ritual for this. No ceremony. Just me, alone in an empty house, expected to be happy about it.”

That conversation haunted me. Our culture has elaborate rituals and gift traditions for the flashy life transitions—weddings, babies, milestone birthdays, retirement parties. But what about the quieter, more complex transitions that often have a profound impact on our identities and daily lives? The empty nest. The career pivot. The decision not to have children. The recovery from illness. The amicable but life-altering divorce. The move back to one’s hometown after decades away. These transformative moments often pass without cultural recognition, leaving people to navigate them without the benefit of community acknowledgment or supportive rituals.

As someone who thinks about gifting as a language of connection and recognition, I began to wonder: could thoughtfully created gift rituals help fill this gap? Could we develop meaningful ways to acknowledge these uncelebrated transitions, offering support and marking their significance even when Hallmark hasn’t created a card category for them?

For Diane, I created what I now think of as an “Empty Nest Recognition Box.” Inside were items acknowledging both her grief and new possibilities: a beautiful journal with a note encouraging her to document this transition period; seeds for her garden (something she’d always said she’d have more time for “someday”); a gift certificate for a photography class she’d mentioned wanting to take; and a carefully curated playlist of songs about endings and beginnings. Most importantly, I included a letter that explicitly acknowledged the complexity of what she was experiencing—that it was both an accomplishment and a loss, that feeling grief didn’t negate her pride in her children’s independence, that this transition deserved recognition and space.

When I delivered it to her door, she broke down again—but these were different tears. “You’re the first person who’s acknowledged that this is a real thing,” she said. “Not just something to get through or be happy about, but an actual life transition worthy of attention.”

That experience sparked what has become one of my most meaningful gift-giving practices: creating custom rituals and thoughtful presents for the life transitions that our culture tends to overlook. Over the past few years, I’ve developed approaches for acknowledging numerous “unmarked” transitions, from career reinventions to friendship evolutions to identity transformations that don’t fit neatly into social media announcement categories.

What I’ve discovered is that these uncelebrated transitions often have something in common: they’re complex, containing both gains and losses. They frequently involve identity shifts that are difficult to articulate. And they often happen within liminal spaces—those in-between periods where you’ve left one version of life behind but haven’t fully established the next. These characteristics make them harder to acknowledge with traditional gifts or pre-packaged sentiments, but also make meaningful recognition all the more valuable.

Take career transitions that don’t fit the traditional advancement narrative. When my cousin Sam left a prestigious but soul-crushing corporate law position to start a much lower-paying role at a non-profit, his decision was met with confusion rather than celebration. There was no promotion party, no congratulatory LinkedIn announcements—just concerned questions about whether he was having some sort of crisis.

Rather than joining the chorus of bewilderment, I created what I called a “Career Courage” gift to mark this significant life shift. It included a beautiful business card holder for his new role (signaling that this move deserved the same professional respect as any upward career move), a clock for his new office with a quote about measuring life in meaning rather than minutes, and a custom-bound collection of stories I’d gathered from people who’d made similar value-driven career pivots, sharing both their challenges and their moments of confirmation that they’d made the right choice.

“Everyone else treated my decision like something to be concerned about,” he told me later. “Your gift was the first thing that made me feel celebrated rather than questioned.”

The key insight here is that transitions often treated as problems to solve or phases to endure are actually profound moments of growth and change that deserve acknowledgment. When we create gift rituals for these unmarked life events, we’re saying: This matters. This is significant. You are seen in this transformation.

Another category of uncelebrated transitions involves shifts in family structure or identity that don’t match conventional milestones. When my friend Leila and her husband decided after years of consideration that they would not have children—a deliberate, thoughtful choice rather than a circumstance—they found themselves in a strange social limbo. There were no cards for “Congratulations on your deeply considered life choice.” No registry for “Starting the next chapter without children.”

After several conversations with Leila about their decision process, I created what we now jokingly call their “Non-Baby Shower Gift”—though the contents were genuinely meaningful. It included a beautiful journal with prompts for envisioning their future together, two plane tickets for a trip they’d been postponing “until the right time,” a tree to plant in their garden as a symbol of how they’d chosen to grow their life together, and a letter affirming the courage and self-knowledge required to make choices that don’t follow the expected script.

“It made our decision feel honored rather than ignored or pitied,” Leila told me. “Like our choice to shape our family this way was as worthy of celebration as any more traditional path.”

Health transitions represent another category often lacking in appropriate rituals. When my colleague Mark finished cancer treatment, he described feeling strangely adrift. “Everyone expects you to be simply elated, to just go back to normal life,” he explained. “Nobody talks about how disorienting it is to reenter regular life after spending months in survival mode, or how complicated the emotions are. You’re grateful, yes, but also changed in ways that are hard to articulate.”

For Mark, I created what I called a “Re-Entry Kit.” Rather than focusing solely on celebration, it acknowledged the complex reality of post-treatment life. It included a star map showing the night sky on the date of his final treatment, a membership to a nature reserve near his home (he’d mentioned how being outdoors had taken on new significance during recovery), a set of cards with gentle prompts for processing his experience when words failed, and a custom playlist divided into sections for different emotional states—songs for the hard days when fear returned, songs for celebrating small victories, songs for sitting with the complex emotions that came with survival.

“It’s the only gift that acknowledged I was still in a transition, not simply ‘back to normal,’” he said. “That permission to still be in process rather than neatly recovered was incredibly freeing.”

What makes these custom gift rituals powerful isn’t their material value but their recognizing function. They say: I see this significant shift you’re experiencing. I acknowledge its complexity. I honor both what you’re gaining and what you’re leaving behind.

Creating meaningful recognition for uncelebrated transitions requires a different approach than conventional gift-giving. Here are some principles I’ve developed through my experiments in this space:

Listen for the unnamed transitions. Pay attention when someone mentions feeling “weird” about a life change, or seems to be struggling to articulate an experience. These moments often signal transitions that lack established recognition patterns. My friend Rachel used the word “untethered” repeatedly after moving back to her hometown after 15 years away—a clue that this geographic shift was also a significant identity transition deserving acknowledgment.

Acknowledge complexity rather than simplifying. Many significant life transitions involve complicated, even contradictory emotions. Rather than trying to frame the experience as wholly positive or negative, create space for its full complexity. When my brother decided to leave a PhD program after three years—a choice that was ultimately right for his wellbeing but still involved grief over the abandoned path—I gave him a “Fork in the Road” gift that explicitly acknowledged both the relief and the loss, the confidence in his decision alongside the natural questioning.

Create containers for processing. Many of these unmarked transitions involve internal identity shifts that are difficult to process alone. Gifts that provide structure for reflection can be particularly valuable. Journals with thoughtful prompts, memory books with questions about both past and future, subscriptions to therapy or coaching sessions—these create intentional space for making meaning of the transition.

Honor the transition itself, not just the outcome. Our achievement-oriented culture tends to celebrate arrivals while ignoring journeys. For unmarked transitions, the liminal period—the time between identities or life phases—often contains the richest growth. When my friend started gender transition, I created a gift that acknowledged the significance of the in-between time itself, not just the endpoint, with a beautiful box designed to hold mementoes from different stages of the journey.

Connect to broader narratives. One of the challenges of uncelebrated transitions is feeling isolated in the experience. Gifts that connect someone to stories, communities, or traditions related to their transition can be deeply affirming. For a friend navigating divorce after a short marriage, I created a collection of brief stories from others who had gone through similar experiences, offering diverse perspectives on rebuilding and the unexpected gifts found in that process.

Create new rituals where traditional ones don’t exist. Rituals help us mark significant passages and integrate change. When there’s no established ritual for an important transition, consider creating one. For my aunt who sold her family home of 40 years to downsize, I organized a “House Farewell” with a meaningful sequence of activities: gathering soil from the garden to bring to her new place, having each family member share a memory in different rooms of the house, creating a photo book capturing details of the home that wouldn’t make it into typical family albums.

The beauty of custom gift rituals for unmarked transitions is that they can evolve alongside our understanding of what constitutes a significant life passage. As our culture develops more nuanced views of life trajectories beyond the conventional markers of success, our gift practices can reflect and reinforce these expanded perspectives.

I’ve found that certain types of gifts lend themselves particularly well to acknowledging complex transitions:

Items that bridge past and future. Objects that honor where someone has been while pointing toward where they’re going create continuity through change. For my friend who closed her first business to start something new, I had a small piece of jewelry made incorporating the logos of both ventures, recognizing that the first was not a failure but a necessary chapter in her entrepreneurial story.

Experience gifts that create space for reflection. Sometimes what people navigating unmarked transitions need most is structured time to process their experience. For Diane, the empty-nester, I later added a weekend retreat specifically designed for women in midlife transitions, where she could connect with others navigating similar terrain while having guided reflection time.

Symbolic items that make the invisible visible. Many significant transitions lack external markers or symbols, making them feel less “real” or acknowledged. Creating tangible representations can help. For my friend completing a decade of therapy—a profound inner transformation with no external ceremony—I commissioned a small art piece symbolizing the journey, something he could display as a reminder of the significance of the work he’d done.

Community-building gifts. Many unmarked transitions come with a sense of isolation or uniqueness (“Am I the only one feeling this way?”). Gifts that connect people to communities with similar experiences can be powerfully affirming. For a friend who had become her mother’s caregiver—a profound life transition that happens with little formal recognition—I found an online support community specifically for adult children caring for parents and paid for a year’s membership.

Future-oriented planning tools. Many uncelebrated transitions involve reimagining one’s life or identity. Gifts that provide structure for this reimagining—vision boards, guided future planning journals, sessions with life coaches—acknowledge that the person is not just leaving something behind but moving toward something new.

What continues to strike me about these custom gift rituals is how much they seem to matter to the recipients. The common refrain I hear is some version of: “I didn’t even know I needed this acknowledged until you did it.” There’s something profoundly validating about having another person recognize a significant transition in your life, especially one that doesn’t come with pre-packaged social recognition.

My friend Diane, who inspired this practice with her empty nest experience, later told me something that perfectly captures the significance of acknowledging these unmarked transitions: “When something big happens and nobody marks it, you start to question whether your experience is real or important. Your gift didn’t just acknowledge my empty nest—it gave me permission to see it as the major life event it actually was.”

Perhaps that’s the greatest gift we can offer to those navigating life’s uncelebrated transitions: the recognition that their experience matters, that their transformation is significant, that the complex, messy, beautiful process of becoming deserves to be honored—not just when it fits neatly into cultural expectations, but especially when it doesn’t.

As for me, creating these custom gift rituals has transformed my understanding of what gifting can be at its most meaningful: not just a transfer of objects, but a form of witnessing—a way of saying to another person, “I see the significance of this moment in your life, even if there’s no established convention for marking it. Your transformation matters, and it deserves to be honored.”

The first handmade gift I remember giving was a disaster of such magnificent proportions that my family still references it two decades later. I was nine, armed with boundless confidence and precisely zero crafting skills, determined to make my father a bookmark for Christmas. Simple enough, you might think. But no—I had witnessed my artistic friend Lily making pressed flower bookmarks and decided this was clearly the only acceptable approach.

The execution, however, was problematic. Having no actual flower press (or patience to wait for one to work), I decided to speed up the process by microwaving the daisies I’d picked from our garden. The resulting scorched petals, hastily glued to construction paper and laminated with excessive sellotape, looked less “thoughtful handcraft” and more “evidence from a crime scene.” When Dad unwrapped it on Christmas morning, there was a moment of confused silence before he gamely declared it “the most unique bookmark” he’d ever seen.

To his eternal credit, he used that hideous bookmark for years until it literally disintegrated, blackened daisy fragments finally giving up their tenuous attachment to the backing paper. That early crafting trauma should have put me off handmade gifts for life, but instead, it sparked a complicated relationship with DIY presents that has evolved alongside the broader cultural attitude toward handmade giving.

We’re living through what I can only describe as a handmade gift renaissance, fueled by Pinterest boards displaying impossibly perfect mason jar creations, YouTube tutorials making complex crafts look deceptively simple, and a cultural push toward meaningful consumption over mass production. The message is clear: handmade gifts are more thoughtful, more personal, more authentic than store-bought alternatives. But this well-intentioned shift has created its own pressures and pitfalls that can transform what should be a joyful act of creation into a stress-inducing pursuit of unattainable perfection.

I’ve experienced this transformation firsthand. Throughout university, I made simple handmade gifts because, frankly, I was broke. Hand-bound notebooks with marbled paper covers. Batches of ginger biscuits presented in charity shop tins I’d decorated. Memory jars filled with inside jokes and photos for friends. These gifts weren’t perfect—the bookbinding was often wonky, the biscuits occasionally overdone—but they were created with genuine enthusiasm and accepted in the spirit they were given. There was an unspoken understanding that the slight imperfections were part of their charm.

Fast forward to the Pinterest era, and something fundamental shifted. Suddenly there were impossible standards to meet. It wasn’t enough to make jam as a gift; it needed to be presented in a perfectly uniform jar with a professionally designed label, accompanied by a handwoven basket and artisanal crackers. The goalposts for what constituted a “good” handmade gift moved dramatically, creating a strange paradox: handmade gifts were simultaneously more valued and more intimidating to attempt.

I remember the exact moment I realized how toxic this perfection pursuit had become. It was 3 AM on a December morning five years ago, and I was hunched over our kitchen table, surrounded by fabric scraps, frantically trying to finish handmade lavender sachets for my extended family. My eyes were burning, my fingers were pricked with needle marks, and I was fighting back tears of exhaustion and frustration because the stitching wasn’t as neat as the reference photo I’d saved. Charlie found me there, squinting in the poor light.

“Em,” he said gently, taking in the scene, “you know you can just buy people presents, right? Normal people do that all the time.”

His comment snapped something into focus. I had somehow internalized the idea that store-bought gifts were inherently less meaningful, less worthy. That to properly express affection, I needed to literally bleed for it (those needles were sharp). Somewhere along the way, the joy had leached out of the making, replaced by a grim determination to create something that wouldn’t look out of place on a lifestyle influencer’s Instagram grid.

That moment sparked a wholesale reconsideration of my approach to handmade giving, and over the years I’ve developed what I think is a healthier philosophy that balances the personal satisfaction of creating something by hand with the reality of limited time, varying skill levels, and the true purpose of gift-giving: meaningful connection.

The first principle of this new approach is radical honesty about my own skills and limitations. I am, objectively speaking, quite good at certain types of baking, decent at simple bookbinding, and absolutely hopeless at anything involving a sewing machine. Acknowledging these truths helps me choose handmade projects that play to my strengths rather than setting myself up for frustration by attempting crafts beyond my ability. There’s no shame in recognizing that some beautiful handmade items are better left to people who have developed those particular skills.

This doesn’t mean never trying new techniques—I’m all for creative expansion—but perhaps experimental crafts shouldn’t debut as holiday gifts with firm deadlines and high emotional stakes. My living room still bears the scars of my brief, disastrous foray into woodburning picture frames that I ill-advisedly attempted two days before my mother-in-law’s birthday. Some skills deserve the dignity of a practice period before their results are wrapped and presented.

The second principle is building realistic time buffers. Handmade gifts almost always take longer than you think they will, often dramatically so. That charming “quick weekend project” on Pinterest was likely created by someone with years of experience and all the necessary supplies already organized in their dedicated craft room, not by someone like me who has to hunt for scissors for 20 minutes before even starting. I’ve learned to estimate my crafting time, then triple it—and even then, I often cut it fine.

Last year, I decided to make specialized cocktail bitters as Christmas gifts for a few close friends who share my appreciation for a good Old Fashioned. The actual hands-on time was minimal, but the infusion process took weeks. By starting in October (instead of mid-December, as my past self would have done), the project remained enjoyable rather than stressful, and I had time to adjust recipes that weren’t working out as planned.

The third principle, and perhaps the most important, is remembering that the value of handmade gifts lies in their personal nature, not their perfection. When my friend Sophia had her first baby last year, I knitted a small blanket for the new arrival. My knitting skills are intermediate at best, and there’s a section near one corner where I clearly lost count of my stitches and had to improvise a fix. I almost started over when I noticed it, but then thought better of it. That small imperfection carries something of the authentic experience of making—the late nights, the learning curve, the problem-solving on the fly. It’s a record of human hands at work, not a machine’s uniform output.

When I gave it to Sophia, I briefly pointed out the mistake, not as an apology but as a recognition of the blanket’s handmade nature. “That’s the bit that makes it special,” she said, running her fingers over the uneven stitches. “It wouldn’t be a proper handmade gift if it was perfect.” Her comment crystallized something I’d been feeling: perhaps we’ve misunderstood what makes handmade gifts meaningful. It’s not their flawlessness, but rather their humanity—the visible evidence that someone spent time creating something specifically for you, thinking of you throughout the process.

This perspective shift has transformed my relationship with handmade giving. I now see the slight variations, the small fixes, the not-quite-symmetric elements not as failures to be hidden but as the very features that distinguish a handmade gift from a mass-produced item. They’re signatures of authenticity, not flaws to apologize for.

That’s not to say we shouldn’t try our best or develop our skills. There’s immense satisfaction in improving our craftsmanship and creating handmade items with increasing finesse. But the pursuit of improvement should be motivated by personal satisfaction and the joy of making, not by anxiety about measuring up to impossible standards set by professional crafters or curated social media feeds.

I’ve also become more selective about when and for whom I make handmade gifts. Some occasions and relationships call for the extra personal touch of something made by hand. Others are better served by finding the perfect item that aligns with the recipient’s needs or desires, even if it comes from a shop. There’s no inherent moral superiority in handmade giving—it’s just one approach among many valid ways to show thoughtfulness.

When I do choose the handmade route, I try to match the project to the specific relationship. For my friend David, who appreciates food but is spectacularly unconcerned with visual presentation, I make annual batches of incredibly delicious but rather homely-looking chocolate truffles. They would never make it onto a food styling Instagram, but he cares about flavor, not appearance, so they’re perfect for him. For my aesthetically minded colleague Jasmine, I select handmade projects where I can achieve a level of finesse that will resonate with her design sensibility—like marbled paper notebook covers that play to my strengths.

This more balanced approach has reintroduced joy into the making process. When I’m not trying to compete with professional-level crafts I see online, when I’m creating with a specific person in mind rather than an abstract standard of perfection, the act of making becomes meditative and connecting rather than stressful. I find myself thinking about the recipient as I work—memories we share, things they’ve said, what I value about them. This mental connection during the creation process infuses the gift with meaning that has nothing to do with how flawless the end product appears.

I’ve also found that being transparent about the making process often deepens the recipient’s appreciation of the gift. Including a note that shares something about why I chose that particular project for them, challenges I encountered, or what I enjoyed about creating it adds a layer of storytelling to the giving. “These vanilla beans were an absolute nightmare to source during lockdown” becomes part of the gift’s provenance, a small shared joke rather than something to conceal.

The handmade renaissance has brought many positive changes—a renewed appreciation for craftsmanship, support for maker economies, more sustainable giving options. But like any cultural shift, it requires thoughtful navigation to extract the benefits without succumbing to its pitfalls. Finding the balance between aspiration and authenticity, between effort and enjoyment, is key to making handmade giving a sustainable practice rather than a path to burnout.

Perhaps the most valuable lesson I’ve learned is that perfectly imperfect handmade gifts create space for a more human exchange. When I present something clearly made by fallible human hands, it invites a different kind of receiving—one where the recipient doesn’t have to perform perfect gratitude or pretend the gift is flawless. There’s room for genuine appreciation of the effort and thought while acknowledging the human limitations we all share.

My father still mentions that awful microwave-scorched daisy bookmark from time to time, usually at Christmas gatherings when we’re exchanging gifts. What’s striking is how his retelling has evolved over the years. It’s no longer just a funny story about a child’s crafting disaster; it’s become a tale about persistence, about the courage to create something and share it proudly despite limited skills, about the value of receiving with genuine appreciation rather than judgment. In his telling, that objectively terrible bookmark has been transformed into something meaningful—not despite its imperfections but because of the authentic connection they represent.

And perhaps that’s the true promise of the handmade gift renaissance, if we can resist the perfectionism trap: not flawless creations that mimic professional production, but authentic exchanges that honor the beautiful messiness of human connection. So go ahead—make the slightly lopsided pottery, bake the cookies that don’t quite match the picture, knit the scarf with the visible join where you added a new ball of yarn. Give these imperfect treasures proudly, with notes that share your process rather than apologize for the results. These aren’t compromises or failures; they’re the most authentic expressions of handmade giving, carrying within their slight imperfections the true gift: evidence of human hands and the heart that guided them.