For my birthday, a coworker I barely liked gave me a beautiful gold necklace. I wore it for months—big meetings, dates, everything. Months later, I saw a tiny engraving: “Office Joke.” My chest went cold. I asked around. Turns out…

It was a joke. A mean one. A few people in our department had pitched in to buy it after someone found it online—cheap but flashy. The plan was to give it to someone they thought was “trying too hard.” Apparently, that was me.

I’m not the kind of person who keeps up with trends or nails the perfect eyeliner flick every day. But I try. I like dressing up. I like feeling polished, especially because I grew up hearing the words “present yourself well” more times than I could count.

When I finally found out about the engraving, it was from this intern named Rafi who didn’t realize I wasn’t in on the joke. He asked if I had ever seen the back of the pendant and laughed a little too loud. My stomach dropped. I laughed too, pretending like I knew.

But after he walked away, I locked myself in a bathroom stall and cried for a full ten minutes.

You know that deep, ugly crying that messes up your makeup and makes you question every decision you’ve made in the past six months? Yeah, that kind. I replayed every moment I’d worn that necklace, imagining my coworkers whispering behind my back.

The next day, I left it on my dresser. But the damage had already been done.

For a couple of weeks, I pulled away. I avoided group lunches, skipped the happy hour, started eating at my desk. I thought I was being mature—“Just focus on work, keep your head down”—but really, I was hiding.

I stopped offering to help others during tight deadlines, and my calendar filled up with “heads-down” time, which really meant “don’t talk to me.” Even my boss, Lorena, asked if everything was okay. I lied and said I was just tired.

But the part that really stung? I didn’t even like most of these people. So why did it matter?

Maybe because I’d let their opinions into my bloodstream without realizing it.

About a month later, during a team meeting, one of the main instigators, this guy named Curtis, made some snide comment about someone’s shoes. I don’t remember what exactly he said, but it was the tone that set something off in me.

For the first time, I spoke up.

“Curtis,” I said, louder than I expected, “do you ever get tired of being the punchline guy? Or is it, like, your personality now?”

Silence.

Even I was shocked I said it.

He stared at me, trying to play it off with a shrug and a “Just messing around.” But something shifted. A few people chuckled, awkwardly, not with him this time—but at him.

I didn’t plan it. I wasn’t trying to “clap back.” I just… snapped.

That day, I realized something: people like Curtis only thrive because no one calls them out. They rely on the rest of us to keep laughing, to pretend it’s not that deep.

But it is that deep. It was to me.

That moment gave me a weird kind of courage. I started showing up to work differently. Not louder or bolder, just clearer. More myself. I wore what I wanted again. I brought back my red lipstick. I started helping people again—but only when I felt respected.

And funny enough, people responded.

Even some of the quieter coworkers began confiding in me. One told me she’d been made fun of for her accent in the early days and had never forgotten it. Another said she always admired how “put-together” I looked, and that it actually inspired her to try harder too.

It was like breaking the silence opened the door for others to speak.

Then something even stranger happened.

Two months later, the necklace showed up on my desk. Same one. Same chain. But now, the engraving was buffed out and replaced with something else.

It said: “Keep Shining.”

No note. No one owned up to it. But I had a feeling I knew who did it—Rafi, the intern. He’d gone full-time by then and had become noticeably kinder since that awkward bathroom incident.

I wore the necklace again. Not as a symbol of pain anymore, but as a reminder. People can be mean. But they can also change—and so can you.

I’d love to say the office transformed into this golden place of kindness and camaraderie overnight. It didn’t. Curtis still made the occasional offhand remark. But now, more people pushed back. The tone had shifted. The quiet ones weren’t so quiet anymore.

As for me, I stopped giving so much power to people who didn’t know my heart.

And that changed everything.

Around that same time, Lorena approached me about a new leadership position—a mentoring role that involved onboarding and supporting younger staff. She said she’d noticed how I handled myself the past few months.

I said yes.

It felt full circle. The very thing that nearly broke me had set off a chain reaction that made me stronger—and actually helped others too.

The necklace still sits in my jewelry box. I don’t wear it every day, but sometimes when I do, I smile. It started as a joke, but it became a turning point.

And here’s the part I didn’t expect.

About a year later, I ran into Curtis in the break room. He’d been quieter since a company reshuffle, no longer the loudest guy in the room. We hadn’t spoken one-on-one in ages.

He looked at the necklace and said, “You still wear that thing?”

I nodded. “It means something different now.”

He hesitated. “I was a jerk,” he said, just above a whisper. “Back then. I thought being funny meant… whatever that was. I’m sorry.”

I didn’t say anything right away. I let it sit.

Then I said, “I know.”

It wasn’t forgiveness exactly. But it was acknowledgment. Sometimes that’s enough.

Looking back, I think the real gift wasn’t the necklace. It was the mirror it held up to me.

You don’t need everyone to like you. But you do need to like the person you see in the mirror.

And if someone tries to tear that down with a joke, let them. Then stand taller.

Because kindness isn’t weakness. And style? That’s power too—when it comes from within.

If this resonated with you, share it with someone who’s had their light dimmed. Or maybe someone who needs a gentle nudge to see their own reflection more clearly. 💛