I had a coin collection that I had been working on ever since I was a kid. Always old American coins. It was one of my most prized things. I had coins given to me from both sets of grandparents. It really mattered to me — it was one of the few heirlooms I had that I hoped to pass on to someone some day.

A family member who was an addict stole it and pawned the entire thing. All of that history gone. I felt and still feel sour about it — I can’t deny that, so I try to honor that emotion when I feel it, acknowledge it, then ask what’s the next thing.

For me, that was understanding the joy of collecting, of finding a rare coin in pocket change, and admiring the history in my hand — who else had held this coin before me? At one time, it wasn’t old or rare and just common currency — maybe someone else paid for their rent or bought something neat they’ve been wanting. All sorts of unknowns. And that brought the joy back to rebuilding it. It’s not lost, the sentiment it represents is still there.

If you’re grandpa could talk to you now, they would probably tell you that the collection had zero importance to him entirely — it was just a thing he could share and connect with his grandson over, and that was the priceless part of it.

Honor that and go grab a silver dollar at a local shop if you can.