I hate gift giving. It’s shameful to say out loud. 

When my calendar turns to December, or my friends begin discussing their birthday plans, an overwhelming sense of dread fills me. Sadly, my first thoughts aren’t about the joy of spending time with the people I love. Rather, my mind fixates on the gifts.

What am I going to buy? Is it expensive enough? Is it thoughtful enough? What if they already have it? What if they don’t like it?

Gift shopping feels impossible. My parents have simply given up on trying to sleuth out my next birthday gift. Instead, they bluntly ask: “Sharis, what do you want for your birthday?”

These past few years, I can barely find an answer. I have a roof over my head, a meal plan, clothes to wear to class and a working bike. There’s little else I genuinely need. 

I’m not sure what I would do if they gave me another sweater. Maybe I could stuff it into my already overflowing closet. And if they were to give me another book, it would probably end up collecting dust next to all the other books I’ll read someday when I have time. They could buy me an extravagant fountain pen, but then I’d probably still default to the Pilot G2’s I’ve been using since elementary school.

I don’t need to be given anything. I’ve known and believed this for quite a while. But I’m turning 20 this year, leaving behind the angst of my teenage years, and apparently, a milestone that major calls for an extravagant gift. 

Nothing is not an option. Gift giving is one of the oldest human rituals we know of. Before we invented currency or written language, nomadic tribes utilized gift giving to form bonds with other tribes. 

It was perhaps a little more transactional than it is these days; a gift was a social contract, a sense of obligation, a “you owe me one.” But it was essential to develop the synergy that allowed all tribes to succeed. To show up empty-handed or not reciprocate a gift was opening the door to ending collaboration. 

With that in mind, perhaps the anxiety I feel when I’m standing in a Target aisle, trying to figure out which candle my friend would like best isn’t irrational. I’m participating in a thousand-year-old ritual of social bonding, and I don’t want to sever this bond.

I know that I won’t lose my friends over my ability to pick the best-smelling candle, but the doubts are still there, nestled between obligation and affection. Modern gift giving hasn’t made it any easier to tell the two apart. 

Recently, I’ve been seeing videos about “making baskets for a birthday/ Christmas/Valentine’s Day/Saint Patrick’s Day/Halloween/Thanksgiving” on social media. 

These baskets tend to have the same items, just in different colors or patterns for the occasion: a big fleece blanket, fuzzy socks, a candle, claw clips, a Stanley, a Touchland hand sanitizer, facemasks, a few beauty products and a couple of snacks. The videos are immaculate, with relaxing ASMR and a satisfying placement of items into the basket. 

It makes me jealous. I have never received a gift like that before, and for some reason, I want one. 

Social media sells lots of things. I’m well aware of Instagram influencers who sell lives of traveling the world or traditional homemaking. But observing social media sell thoughtfulness is new for me. 

In these videos, someone goes out of their way to buy all these different things for one gift basket. Is that not the truest example of thoughtfulness? 

Or is it the quantity that makes it thoughtfulness? Would I still feel that same desire if there were five less items in the basket? If the items were not color coordinated? If instead, they were placed into a recycled bag?

I don’t think so.  The feeling somehow evaporates when the abundance is removed. 

The basket, I’m beginning to understand, is a physical manifestation of something I’ve been craving: to be thought of, to be cared for, to be loved. And when the gift is extravagant, it’s proof of an affection that’s impossible to ignore. 

The issue with physical proof is that it fades. The candle will be burned to an empty jar, the snacks will be consumed, the hand sanitizer will all be used. Suddenly, the evidence of love is gone, and one must question again if there was ever love to begin within. 

I want to be chosen deliberately and without obligation. 

That’s something you can’t order on Amazon.

For my 20th birthday, I’m asking for experiences with people I love. A drive with no destination. A weekend spent in the mountains. An adventure to the beach. A bike around campus. 

My home doesn’t have room for many more things. But my heart does.