I’ve been thinking a lot about gifts lately, not the shiny, wrapped-up kind that arrive in boxes, but the deeper kind, the ones that whisper, “I see you.” You know, the phrase everyone tosses around: “It’s the thought that counts.” It rolls off the tongue so easily, doesn’t it? Like a comforting pat on the back when someone hands you something that misses the mark entirely.
But here’s the thing I’ve been unraveling in my quiet moments: what if that thought is empty? What if it’s not a thought at all, but just a lazy assumption, a checkbox ticked off without ever really looking at the person you’re giving to?
I remember the first time I truly questioned this. It was years ago, back when I was still piecing myself together after everything. A friend, well-meaning I suppose, gifted me a book on “quick fixes for busy moms.” It was one of those self-help tomes with glossy pages and bullet-point advice that screamed, “Just hustle harder!”
I smiled, said thank you, because that’s what we’re taught, right? Gratitude above all. But inside, it stung. She knew my story… or at least, I thought she did. The late nights with Adriel, the way I’d clawed my way out of darkness, building Garo Gift Shop from nothing but dreams and sheer will.
That book didn’t see me; it saw a stereotype. A tired mom who needed efficiency hacks. Where was the acknowledgment of the woman who’d already reinvented herself? The one who craved something soul-nourishing, like a journal for my whispers or a scent that reminded me of home.
It wasn’t about the book’s price or perfection; it was about the absence of real noticing. And yet, if I’d voiced my disappointment, I’d be the ungrateful one. “It’s the thought that counts,” they’d say, as if that erases the shallowness.
This is where so many people get gifting wrong, and it frustrates me because it’s not just about objects, it’s about connection, about feeling truly known in a world that often overlooks us.
We live in a time where gifts are flung around like confetti: birthdays, holidays, apologies wrapped in ribbons. But how often do we pause to listen, to observe?
I’ve seen it play out in relationships, friendships, even family ties. People hand over something generic, something that screams “I didn’t bother to remember,” and then they demand your joy. They get mad if you’re not beaming, as if their minimal effort deserves a parade.
“I thought of you!” they insist, but did they? Or did they think of a version of you that’s convenient, surface-level, without the layers you’ve shared time and again?
Take the classic boyfriend blunder: buying the wrong jersey. Imagine this, you know he’s a die-hard Chelsea fan. He’s talked about it endlessly, worn the blue on game days and shared stories of childhood heroes like Didier Drogba that lit up his world.
But come his birthday, you hand him a Manchester United kit, red and glaring. “It’s a jersey! For your love of football!” you say with a grin. Would he smile politely? Hell no. He’d be hurt, confused, maybe even furious. “How could you not know this about me?” he’d ask, and rightly so. It’s not just fabric; it’s a symbol of identity, of passion.
Flip it, and suddenly when he gifts you flowers in a color you’ve repeatedly said clashes with your vibe, those harsh reds when you’ve whispered your love for soft pastels and he expects endless thanks. “It’s the thought,” he shrugs, but where was the listening? The noticing of your Instagram stories filled with blush pinks and lavenders, or the way you light up around lilies, not roses?
Most have lived this and felt the quiet ache of it. Here’s an example of a partner who bought a silver necklace for their anniversary. It was delicate, sure, with a little heart pendant that probably cost him a decent chunk. But she only wears gold. Always have.
She’d mentioned it casually, more than once, pointing out pieces in shop windows, sharing why silver felt cold against her. He’d nod, smile, but clearly, it never sank in. When she opened that box, her heart sank. Not because it wasn’t pretty, but because it screamed, “I see a generic woman, not you.”
She tried to wear it once, for him, but it felt like a lie against her collarbone. And when she gently explained, hoping for understanding, he blew up. “You’re so ungrateful! It’s the thought that counts!” he yelled, as if his oversight was her fault. That was the beginning of the end.
She realized then that if someone can’t notice the small things, the gold over silver, the pastels over primaries, how can they hold the bigger ones? The vulnerabilities shared in the dark, the dreams whispered about building a legacy?
And here’s the hypocrisy that boils my blood: if the tables turned, he’d have reacted the same way she did, or worse. Picture her gifting him that Man U jersey, knowing full well his heart beats for Chelsea. He’d see it as a slap, a sign she didn’t care enough to remember his core. “How could you?” he’d demand, and maybe even walk away, feeling unseen.
Yet when it’s us women, we’re expected to grin and bear it. To pretend that shallow gesture is enough. Society drills it into us: be grateful, always. But gratitude shouldn’t be forced; it should bloom naturally from being truly considered.
That necklace wasn’t a gift; it was a mirror reflecting his lack of attention. And breaking up over it? To outsiders, it might seem petty, but it wasn’t about the metal. It was about the pattern, the repeated times she’d shared pieces of herself, only for them to evaporate into thin air. If he couldn’t listen to the simple things and notice that she only wears gold jewelry, how could he be trusted with her heart?
This isn’t just romantic; it seeps into every corner of life. Friends who gift you makeup in shades that don’t match your melanin, despite seeing you every day. Family who buy clothes in styles you’ve outgrown, ignoring how you’ve evolved. Colleagues who offer generic gift cards when you’ve bonded over specific loves, like artisanal teas or vintage books.
Each time, the defense is the same: “It’s the thought.” But what thought? The rushed one at the store, grabbing whatever’s convenient? The assumption based on stereotypes rather than your actual words?
I’ve been on the receiving end enough to know the difference between a gift that resonates and one that falls flat. The resonant ones? They hum with intention. They say, “I heard you that time you mentioned loving the scent of jasmine because it reminds you of home.” Or, “I noticed how you collect handmade earrings from local artisans, so I found these from a Kenyan maker.” Those are the thoughts that count: deep, attentive, rooted in knowing you.
Let me paint a picture from my own life, one that still makes me wince. Early in my entrepreneurship days, when Garo was just a spark, a friend gifted me a business book on “corporate strategies for big firms.” It was thick, impressive-looking, probably expensive. But I’d shared with her my vision: sustainable, community-driven, centered on Kenyan craftsmanship and empowering women like me.
That book? It was all about cutthroat competition, numbers over people. I thanked her, of course, but inside, it felt like she’d handed me a map to a place I never wanted to go. Had she listened when I talked about weaving healing into my work, about creating something soft and meaningful after years of hardness? No. It was a generic “success” gift, blind to my path.
And when I didn’t rave about it, she sulked, as if my quiet response was an insult. People like that, they give from their ego, not from empathy. They want the pat on the back for effort, but effort without observation is just noise.
Contrast that with the gifts that have moved me to tears, the ones where the thought truly shines because it’s laced with real knowing. Like the time a close friend, after hearing me muse about my love for poetry, surprised me with a custom journal embossed with lines from Maya Angelou: “I rise.”
She’d noticed how I’d light up quoting those words, how they’d become my mantra through motherhood and reinvention. Or my sister, who gifted me a bracelet etched with Adriel’s birthdate, not flashy, but thoughtful.
These weren’t grand; they were intimate. They made me feel seen, not just acknowledged. And that’s the shift I’m advocating for: from shallow gestures to soulful ones. Stop hiding behind “the thought counts” when your thought skipped the homework.
Listen when someone shares their likes, their team, their colors, their stories. Notice the details: the way she only wears gold, the team he likes, the flowers that make her smile, the passions that light her up. Gifting should be a bridge, not a barrier.
But let’s be real; I haven’t always gotten it right myself. There were times, especially in my younger days, when I’d gift from a place of haste. Buying a friend a perfume I loved, without considering if it matched her scent profile. Or giving my mom something practical when what she craved was sentimental. I’d justify it with that same phrase, but deep down, I knew it fell short.
Healing has taught me better, therapy, self-reflection, the raw work of becoming whole. Now, I approach gifting like I approach my life: with intention. I jot notes in my phone: “She mentioned loving kitenge.” “He’s obsessed with Arsenal memorabilia.” It’s not about perfection; it’s about presence. And oh, the joy when it lands, their eyes widening, the genuine hug, the “How did you know?” That’s the magic.
Lately, I’ve been basking in this reciprocity. The people around me now, they get it. They’ve been noticing, considering, gifting in ways that touch my core. Even strangers turned allies: a client who, after browsing my shop, surprised me with a custom piece of art depicting a mother and child in gold hues.
“I saw your story on your blog,” she said. These gifts? They’re not just things; they’re affirmations that I’m surrounded by those who listen. It fills me with gratitude, the real kind, not the performative one. I feel held, known, in a way that heals old wounds.
And I’m learning, every day, to gift better myself. To pause before purchasing, to ask myself: Does this reflect them? Have I noticed their whispers? It’s transforming my relationships: deeper bonds with friends, more meaningful moments with family, even in my business, where I curate gifts that resonate with customers’ stories.
Garo isn’t just a shop; it’s a space for thoughtful giving, where each item tells a tale of consideration.
So, let’s rewrite the narrative. “It’s the thought that counts” only if the thought is thoughtful, steeped in knowing, listening, noticing. Otherwise, it’s just an excuse.
Demand better, give better, and watch how connections bloom. I’m grateful for the lessons, for the people who show up fully, and for the woman I’m becoming: one who gifts from the heart, and receives with the same openness.
In this dance of giving and receiving, we find our truest selves. And that, my loves, is the real gift.
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