I don’t remember a time before jewellery. It’s always been there, shimmering away, catching my eye. As a little girl, I’d watch my mum polish her collection, each piece familiar, each one loved. I’d drape chains on my head, slip rings onto my tiny fingers, clench my fist tight, and run away, declaring them mine.

Then there were the plastic jewels, beads strung across my neck, stacked on my wrists. Convinced I looked like royalty, I’d strut through Morrisons, waiting for someone to admire my fine collection.

And the 20p machine outside the greengrocers, I never stood a chance. Every time I passed, I fed it coins like a ritual, twisting the dial, waiting for that little plastic egg to drop. A new treasure. A new obsession.

Jewellery in my teens was something else entirely. I’d rush to the Freedom stand in Topshop, dodging the changing rooms with their unforgiving mirrors. Rings, necklaces, bracelets I could wear them instantly and not worry about how they made my body look. Jewellery was a safe space.

That phase gave way to afternoons climbing the stairs of Afflecks, hunting for beaded bracelets to stack high under my school jumper.

At uni, earrings became my obsession. Clothes were easy, I’d throw on a jumper and wide-leg pants without a second thought. But earrings? I went all in. The wilder, the better. I’d lose myself sifting through sales my hands full of mismatched pairs ready to add to my collection!

And then, when life got hard, jewellery was there again. Some of you already know, blóma began because I needed something. Something to do, something to hold, something occupy me when everything else felt hopeless. And now, it’s still here. A part of me, a part of you.

I don’t think there’s been a single day in the past five years where I haven’t thought about jewellery. And honestly? I wouldn’t want it any other way.