The Psychology of Saving the Good Candles

Saving joy for later.

Source: AI-Generated

Last month I was reorganizing my closet and found a candle I'd completely forgotten about. It was expensive and beautifully packaged—the kind you receive as a gift and immediately think, "I'll save this for something special." According to the faded receipt still tucked in the box, I'd had it for four years.

In four years of collecting dust, the scent had weakened and the wax had started to yellow. I still hadn't found an occasion worthy of lighting it.

This discovery led to others. As I kept cleaning, I found stationery from 2019 still wrapped in cellophane, a bottle of wine someone brought to a dinner party I can barely remember, and a silk scarf with the tags still attached, waiting for an outfit or an event that apparently never materialized. I stood there holding the candle, feeling a little foolish, and wondered what exactly I had been waiting for.

Why We Save the Good Stuff

I mentioned this to a few friends, half-embarrassed, and every single one of them had their own version. A friend shared she has "guest towels" that no guest has ever touched. My sister-in-law owns china plates she's used twice in 30 years. I know people with bottles of perfume they've been rationing since college, convinced that some future occasion will finally justify using them.

I get the logic. These things feel finite, and there's something about using them that feels like losing them. We hold off because we tell ourselves we'll recognize the right moment when it comes. The problem is that the right moment keeps not arriving, and meanwhile the candle fades, the wine turns, and we've spent years walking past things that were meant to bring us joy.

The Psychology Behind the Waiting

Psychologists have a few explanations for why we do this.

One factor is loss aversion. Kahneman and Tversky's research on decision-making found that we feel losses roughly twice as intensely as equivalent gains (1979). Lighting the candle means losing it, and using the fancy stationery means having less of it. Even though using these things would bring us pleasure, the anticipated loss feels heavier, which leads us to delay indefinitely.

Another factor is what researchers call scarcity mindset. Mullainathan and Shafir's work on scarcity (2013) shows that when we perceive something as limited, we become hypervigilant about protecting it, sometimes to the point where we never use it at all. The candle becomes a resource to be conserved, and we forget that it was designed to be burned.

And then there's a third explanation that's a little more uncomfortable. Terror management theory, developed by Greenberg, Solomon, and Pyszczynski (1986), suggests that reminders of our own mortality can trigger avoidance behaviors. The untouched candle isn't just a candle. It's a way of keeping time frozen. As long as it sits there unused, I don't have to confront the fact that my days are passing. If I never light it, I get to pretend I have unlimited tomorrows in which to light it.

What We're Really Saying

What I've come to realize is that every time I leave the good candle sitting in the closet, I'm making a decision about today. I'm deciding it doesn't count, that I haven't earned the nice things yet, and that my special occasion is still somewhere up ahead.

Over time, that message becomes a habit, and we start living in a state of permanent deferral, waiting for a future version of our lives that finally deserves the good stuff.

And here's the part that's hard to say out loud: that future isn't guaranteed. We know this because we write it in sympathy cards and say it at funerals, but we don't always live like we believe it. The candle isn't going to last forever whether I light it or not, and the question is whether I'll get any joy from it before it's gone.

Decision-Making Essential Reads

Why We Want What We Want

You Don’t Have a Choice: How Decisions Affect Your Energy

The Special Occasion Is Today

I'm not suggesting we burn through everything we own by the weekend. Some things are genuinely worth saving for a specific event, and I'm keeping a first-edition book to give my daughter when she graduates, because that feels right.

What I'm questioning is the "someday" saving—the kind where ordinary life never quite qualifies. A quiet Tuesday morning with a cup of tea can become a special occasion if we let it. A random Saturday dinner with someone you love counts as worthy of celebration.

The life you're living right now is the one you've been saving things for.

Putting Joy Into Practice Today

Since the candle incident, I've been trying a few things.

1. Use one saved item each week. Pick something you've been holding onto and actually use it. Last week I finally opened the stationery, and this week it’s the scarf that had been sitting in tissue paper for two years. What's one thing you've been saving that could come off the shelf this week?

2. Ask what you're waiting for. When you catch yourself saving something, pause and ask: what's the occasion I'm holding out for? I started doing this with a bottle of expensive lotion I'd been rationing for months. When I couldn't name what I was waiting for, I started using it daily. If your answer is "I don't know, just... something," that's a sign it's time to stop waiting.

3. Redefine what counts as special. I used to think special meant a holiday or a milestone. Dinner at home can be special if we put takeout on the china plates. You don't need external validation or a calendar event to justify enjoying what you have. What if the ordinary moments were worthy of the good stuff?

And I've noticed that having fewer "precious" things actually helps. When everything in the closet is too good to touch, nothing gets used, and I'd rather have a smaller collection of things I actually enjoy than a larger one I'm afraid to open.

The Lit Candle, Finally

That 4-year-old candle? I lit it last Tuesday while I was reading, and the scent wasn't quite what it used to be, but it was still lovely. The morning felt different, slower somehow, more present.

I don't know what I was waiting for all those years, but I'm done waiting. Sitting there with the candle finally lit, the morning felt like enough. It always had been.