A friend of mine always wears an evil eye around her neck. The charm is gold and the right level of shiny, enough to catch the eye, but small enough to occasionally slip behind clothing and out of sight. For a long time, I wanted a necklace just like it. For a long time, I didn’t buy one, because the cynic in me couldn’t stop thinking about who would profit. Not that an artist shouldn’t profit from their work. I just wonder sometimes if protection—and spirituality and self-care in general—is too over-commodified. Does “immunity boost” essential oil really help our bodies? Can black tourmaline actually ward off negative energy? Do dream catchers truly snag our nightmares? Part of me, maybe the part that grew up with a doctor and a lawyer, used to scoff on reflex at evil eye jewelry and crystals. But another part of me that’s my mother’s daughter, the mother who lived in a separate home decorated with fairies and Goddess statuettes, who stocked her shelves with titles like The Secret, The Celestine Prophesy, and The Mists of Avalon, has always wondered if protective charms can work.
What I’ve come to believe is that it’s a matter of intention.
A couple years ago, a friend invited me to go jewelry shopping. She was about to get married and needed to find rings. As we approached the jewelry store, a halo of nervous thrill surrounded her as she talked about the stresses of wedding planning—the things that were already going wrong, the things she hoped would go a certain way. I told her it’d all be great in the end and that I couldn’t wait to see it come together. She thanked me, but then went quiet. Over the next minute, her energy completely shifted: the happy static that’d surrounded her receded, imploding out of sight.
At the ring counter, I wasn’t sure what to do. She didn’t seem excited anymore. I wasn’t sure what my role was, either; I wasn’t a bridesmaid or a close friend, and yet, here I was at her side, looking at wedding rings. I tried to stay close and ask questions, but she avoided eye contact and kept peeling away. What I didn’t know then is that she was horribly conflicted; she didn’t know how to tell me that I wasn’t invited to the wedding. Months prior, she’d somewhat warned me that the guest list was going to be tight, and I reassured her that I didn’t expect to be invited. But she hadn’t mentioned it again, so I made the wrong assumption that I was on the guest list.
When her ring browsing turned into a general roving of the store, making it difficult to stay close, I found a display case of necklaces and pretended to be interested. Meanwhile, I tracked my friend in my peripheral vision. After a minute or so, a gold charm the size of a thumbprint in the shape of an open, downward pointing hand caught my attention. I recognized it as a popular symbol but didn’t know its meaning. I liked that it had an evil eye etched into the palm.
I’d lost track of my friend. I glanced up and located her at a display case not too far away. “See anything you like yet?” I asked.
“No, just doing research for now,” she said, and drifted away.
I walked the perimeter of the store, glancing at bangles and delicate chain bracelets, and kept picturing the open palm charm in my mind’s eye. I went back to the necklace and gazed at the delicate yet solid gold hand, then flitted away. Then went back again. Then away again. My friend stayed on the opposite side of the store. I felt her presence like a tingling on my back, something I couldn’t ignore, yet I couldn’t get close to her. It made me feel unbalanced and off centered. Uncomfortable in my skin. Gazing at the necklace calmed me, gave me somewhere to put my attention. I must’ve gone back at least five times. When I finally asked to try it on, I felt a sense of “yes-ness” when it circled my neck.
You need me, I’m yours, I’m here for you, the necklace seemed to tell me.
Buoyed by a shopping high, that happy adrenaline that comes with finding something wonderful, I sought out my friend and noticed new details: she never stopped moving. Her eyes weren’t settling on any one piece of jewelry, just grazing over the displays. She chewed her fingernails. My confusion dissipated, replaced by a sense of worry. In hindsight, the worry was probably hers—how to tell me something that might hurt my feelings.
My friend asked if I was ready to go and I told her yes, but needed one more minute. I didn’t want to part with the necklace. You want it, I pointed out to myself. It was my birthday next week. Just get it, I urged.
When the shopkeeper rang me up, she said, “That’s a powerful protection charm, you know.”
“No way?” I replied, distracted by my friend joining me at the cashier’s counter. As she came near, I began to feel the fuzzy edges of confusion again. I pressed a hand to my chest, where my new necklace hung, and my thoughts cleared. Something was definitely up with my friend—but I was OK. If I could go back to that moment, I would’ve tried to extend that feeling to her, or at least checked in.
After the jewelry store, my friend and I were supposed to get coffee, but she begged off, saying she needed to get home early. A half hour later, she texted to explain that she didn’t know how to tell me about not being invited to her wedding.
Everything suddenly made sense—her energy shift, the sudden distance, my growing unease. The necklace, too.
Was it the adrenaline of finding a shiny trinket that’d made me feel better in the store? I do love shopping. Was it the act of placing a hand on my chest that’d centered me at the cashier’s counter? Breathing and mindfulness are crucial to mental health. The necklace was made of gold, not magic. But its protective effect was forged in the moments that self-assuredness overwrote confusion, underneath which was a subtle, growing hurt. When I wear the necklace today, I’m more apt to take deep breaths when I feel overwhelmed or stressed because I feel the gold hand against my chest. When I feel socially unmoored, or dislike someone’s energy, the necklace reminds me to find my center.
The Hamsa hand is a popular symbol for protection. But was my necklace specifically imbued with protective and healing powers by its maker? Maybe, maybe not. What’s important is that I made it protective. First by accident and now by conscious choice.
I love this story, Sasha! And that necklace! (You'll have to tell me where you got it.) As someone who is well-practiced in overriding their intuition, I feel like I've had to completely re-learn my response to feeling that kind of pull toward anything. But I think you're right about intention being what matters most. It's sort of like taking a placebo, which can have like a 30% efficacy rate even when we KNOW it's a placebo! Our minds (and our guts!) are definitely more powerful than we give them credit for, regardless of the talisman.