My Confession

I have a confession: I’m addicted to collecting cups and mugs. All shapes, all sizes, all colors, from all places. A tiny ceramic cup from a market, a heavy mug from a café, a pastel one that simply looked too pretty to leave behind. I don’t buy them because I need them, I buy them because they feel like little pieces of life I can hold. Each one carries a story, a moment, a mood. My shelves are full, my kitchen is full, and still… I find myself reaching for another. It’s a harmless addiction, but a real one a soft obsession with vessels that feel like memories.

Collecting is a quiet human instinct. We gather things even when we already have many versions of them, even when they’re expensive, even when they don’t make sense financially. We collect because it brings joy, a spark, a thrill, a sense of identity. Collections make us feel anchored. They turn objects into comfort, into ritual, into meaning. A collection is a way of saying: this is who I am, this is what I love, this is what I choose to keep close. Whether it’s cups, stamps, perfumes, books, or tiny trinkets, collecting is a form of storytelling. It’s a way of building a little world that feels safe and ours.

Sometimes I think collecting is a way of holding on to time. Each cup feels like a pause, a memory caught mid‑sip. When I look at them lined up mismatched, colorful, imperfect I see chapters of my life stacked quietly together. The thrill of finding a new one never fades; it feels like discovering a new piece of myself. Maybe that’s why we collect not to own more, but to remember more. To keep proof that joy can be found in small, ordinary things, again and again.