It’s that time of year again when I start buying gifts for others and, inevitably, start thinking, “But what about me?”

Now, before you roll your eyes and mutter “consumerism at its finest,” hear me out. I’m a firm believer in the sacred ritual of self-gifting. Some people bake cookies. Others volunteer. I give myself stuff. Sometimes that “stuff” is material like a cozy pair of shoes that whisper main character energy. Sometimes it’s intangible like inspiration, calm, or a bold word for the year that I try (and usually fail) to embody by February.

I’ve already started the gift-giving marathon for others including family, friends, coworkers, that one person who will absolutely not get me anything back but to whom I am still emotionally obligated to give a scented candle. But as I wrap up their thoughtful tokens of love, I can’t help but wonder what I’ll unwrap for myself this year.

Last year it was clarity. (Okay, technically it was a handbag that symbolized clarity.) This year, maybe whimsy? Or a Dyson Airwrap? Or a trip? Or a word so powerful that it reverberates into 2026?

I want something that makes my neurons tingle and my heart feel like it just heard the perfect punchline. I want to be hit with whimsy like the universe just threw glitter in my face and said, “You’re welcome.”

Because self-gifting isn’t selfish. It’s self-preserving. It’s how we remind ourselves that we’re not just gift givers, but living, breathing recipients of joy.

So while I’ll happily pick out the perfect gifts for others, I’m also keeping my eye out for that little something special that says, “You did it. You survived, thrived, and occasionally even brushed your hair.”

Now if only I could decide between a watch, a word, or a whimsical weekend getaway.

Maybe I’ll just gift myself the freedom to decide later.