I’ve been thinking about pearls lately — not the shiny kind you see in magazines, but the ones tucked away in old jewelry boxes. The ones that carry stories, and maybe even a little contradiction.

It’s funny how jewelry can say so much about the world it comes from.

Back then, pearls felt like they belonged to a certain kind of woman — the perfectly pressed kind, who ironed her linens and had her hair set once a week. Pearls were neat, polite, and quiet. They went with twinsets and station wagons and the idea of being “proper.” My Italian grandmother, who spoke with her hands, used broad gestures, was expressive, and never shy about telling you what she thought, wasn’t that woman. Pearls weren’t her. They were from another world entirely — one I admired from a distance, but didn’t really recognize myself in.

That’s why it always struck me as odd that she had a strand of pearls tucked into her jewelry box, right next to her religious medals and a few single clip-on earrings that had lost their match. She never wore them. They just sat there — a little yellowed, a little tangled — like a souvenir from a world she didn’t visit.

She spent her days in the kitchen, a dish towel always draped over one shoulder, the smell of tomato sauce (“gravy”) in the air. She was funny, sharp, and impossible not to love — the kind of woman who could fill a room without even trying. The pearls didn’t fit her. They didn’t match her rhythm.

And though I sometimes aspire to be that behaved type — the one who moves gracefully through the world, hair smooth, voice calm — it’s just not me. I’m loud. My hands fly when I talk. I don’t own a diamond because, knowing me, I’d somehow pop it right out of the setting within a few days.

So when I decided I wanted to create a pearl necklace, I knew it couldn’t be that kind of pearl necklace. I wanted to add something to it. Color. Energy. A little rebellion.

Mine are made with chunkier baroque pearls — each one a little imperfect, a little wild, which feels right. Between them, hits of hot pink, red, or blue Czech glass for that wink of color that keeps them from taking themselves too seriously. And at the clasp, there’s always a little extra attitude — something unexpected that makes you smile when you put it on.

You can wear them alone, let them be the statement. Or pile them up with other bright pieces, layer them against gold, color, pattern — the more the better. They hold their own.

Because maybe pearls don’t need to whisper. Maybe they can shout, laugh, and gesture wildly — just like my grandmother, and just like me