A Doily, a Tie-Dye Lampshade, and 99 Cents Worth of Permission

On backtracking, trusting your eye, and stumbling into your next thing.

New shade, same peace lily—everyone’s thriving over here.

If this resonates, I'd love to know: What joy have you been following that might already be teaching you something valuable? Hit reply and tell me, or leave a comment below. And if you know someone who's been asking "what's next?" - someone who might need permission to backtrack and see what they've been walking past - restacking this helps more women find it. ❤️

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Expert thrifters advise backtracking through the store before you leave.

I was ready to go with my keys in hand, brain already onto the next errand on my to-do list. But their words rang in my ears, so I turned around.

That’s when I saw it.

My eye told me something didn’t make sense, like two decades had accidentally collided in aisle three. A yellowed doily, an actual little handmade relic, draped over a modern tie-dye lampshade. Victorian tea party meets Woodstock souvenir.

I lifted the doily and was greeted with a riot of color. The shade was exquisite. I have a cylindrical lampshade at home that’s been begging for an update (quietly, like it doesn’t want to be a bother), and I knew I had to get this beauty.

I’d considered painting my own lampshade at home, but fear kept me from experimenting and possibly ruining it. I can handle many forms of personal growth, but “destroying a perfectly decent lampshade in the name of creativity” is not in my DNA.

So I did what any reasonable modern woman does when she spots something gorgeous and needs a second opinion: I snapped a photo and uploaded it to ChatGPT, my trusted evaluator, guide, and overly enthusiastic intern.

ChatGPT reported that it looked like a designer shade and was absolutely worthy of my consideration. But I already knew it was perfect. (I just enjoy having backup that never rolls its eyes.)

Then came the problem: there was no price sticker anywhere.

At other thrift stores, signs are posted liberally about this situation, as if Moses himself wrote them.

“If there is no price, it’s not for sale. No exceptions.”

But this store had no such signs. Which, frankly, made me nervous. Thrift stores run on mysterious laws. Sometimes the laws are posted. Sometimes they are telepathic. Sometimes they are enforced by a woman named Carol who has worked there since 1994 and is not in the mood.

I stopped an employee and asked. She looked at the shade I was cradling.

“A lampshade without a base?” she said. “Ninety-nine cents.”

Wait, what?

This had to be a mistake. I headed to the register ready to confess, like I’d broken a crystal candlestick and was about to offer my firstborn as restitution.

But I didn’t even get the chance.

“It’s ninety-nine cents,” the cashier volunteered, as casually as if she’d said, “Have a nice day.”

Thrift gods, I see you.

This fascination with buying used things is not new. My parents were flea market aficionados, so I grew up understanding that “new” is often just “more expensive.” I bought my kids’ toys from garage sales because Fisher Price stuff lasts forever and because children treat toys like they’re training for a demolition derby. I love the feeling of getting something that looks brand new for pennies. I even buy used cars because I refuse to pay full sticker price for the privilege of immediate depreciation.

But as I’ve gotten older, I don’t go to garage sales anymore. I just don’t need much anymore.

Or so I thought.

That “I’m done with buying things” feeling evaporated when serendipity struck and I took my first step into a consignment boutique called House of Style. I hadn’t meant to go shopping for myself. I was on a mission to get a handbag strap repaired at the cobbler.

I made a special trip, found parking on a crowded Main Street, a minor miracle, and the crabby cobbler turned me away at the door with a dismissive shout:

“Shoes only!”

Fine.

If you’ve ever found parking on a busy Main Street, you know you don’t waste it. So I lingered. I wandered. I backtracked in real life.

And that’s how I ended up in House of Style.

The store was packed with designer women’s apparel—shoes, belts, scarves, handbags—all on consignment. Beautiful, gently used items for a fraction of the cost of new. That chance detour, that happy accident, ignited a new lifestyle for me.

In the past six months, everything has changed in how I view clothing and household goods. I love fashion but can’t go into a retail clothing store anymore. I’ll walk in, look at a price tag, and feel my soul quietly exit my body. I’m obsessed with finding designer items for pennies.

But here’s something else I didn’t expect: following this joy opened a door I didn’t know was there.

Thrifting is a joyful addiction, like going on a treasure hunt every day. But there’s only so much you can buy for yourself. I already had plenty. What I did have, though, was an eye for unique and expensive. I kept spotting things I didn’t want, but I could tell were worth far more than $4.99 at Goodwill.

And I started to wonder if I could resell and make a profit.

I didn’t set out to become a reseller. I just followed what felt joyful: the treasure hunt, the thrill of the find, the pleasure of bringing beautiful things home.

With each something new that came home with me, I wanted something else to leave—one in, one out, so the joy didn’t turn into clutter.

Then I remembered the dozen sterling silver napkin rings my mother had given me, sitting unused in a drawer. My Martha Stewart days have been over for a while so I listed them on eBay. So far, four have sold.

Suddenly I had a skill I didn’t know I was building and an inventory I didn’t know I was gathering. The thrifting I was doing for pleasure? It taught me what sold, what didn’t, how to spot quality, how to photograph, how to ship.

It taught me the difference between “pretty” and “searchable.” It taught me that value isn’t always obvious, unless you train your eye to see it.

I’m not saying everyone should become a reseller.

But I am saying this: what if the income you’re looking for is hiding inside the joy you’re already feeling? What if you don’t need a five-year plan? What if you just need to backtrack through the store one more time and see what you’ve been walking past?

That lampshade is now glowing on my lamp at home, lighting up my living room. The photo you’re seeing? That’s it: proof that backtracking pays off.

The shade I almost missed cost 99 cents.

But it reminded me of something bigger—sometimes the next step isn’t forward.

Sometimes it’s simply turning around and noticing what’s been waiting for you all along.