The Pen Is Not the Enemy — But It Could Be

Is buying an expensive pen a form of vanity?

A few years ago, I might’ve answered yes. I would’ve smiled politely at the glittery packaging, nodded at the cult favorites, and moved on with a trusty old ballpoint or gel pen — the kind you get free from an arcade game or  dig out from the bottom of a pencil pouch. Function over flair. Ink over indulgence. 

Anyway, it's just ink right? 

But I learned something recently. Learned it the hard way — through heat, swelling, and a wrist that screamed louder than any shopping cart ever could.

Here’s the story.

The Day My Body Said "Enough"

I was doing something mind-numbingly archaic: updating records by hand (it's government required). Hours of listing, scribbling, rewriting. I reached for a basic ballpen — thin, hard, a little ergonomic, a Faber Castell. The kind that glides easily until your grip has to overcompensate. I used it because it's a ballpen and it's black - the two requirements. I always finish what I start. That’s the rule.

But by the time I stood up, my wrist had locked. My fingers throbbed. I’d developed a literal knot in my hand from the tension of holding something so poorly designed for long writing sessions. Days later, the pain was still there —  muscle strain, tendonitis. Writing, the act that brings me joy, had betrayed me.

My wrist hurt so much that I had to splint it! Fortunately, I have supplies at home. I asked my husband to buy me a hand brace, but all three stores in the mall were out of stock. 

Or so I thought.

Enter: The So-Called “Excess”

I walked into Kinokuniya a couple of weeks back. I wasn’t planning to buy anything serious — just look around, maybe. But then I saw the Japanese pen display. 

And then Mattehop. Thick Barrel.  Balanced weight. Designed not just for color vibrancy, but comfort. I researched why these pens are a big deal. Well all of the pens on this display for that matter. 

Now? I wanted to cry.

The moment I held one Mattehop, my hand relaxed. My fingers wrapped around it like it was made for me. I wrote a sentence. Then another. No tension. No shooting pain. Just flow.

I ended up testing every pen that caught my eye — Kuru Toga mechanical pencils with rotating lead, Clickart color pens that don’t dry out, even the glittery Kirarich markers that added a kiss of sparkle without stickiness. Each one felt like a gentle apology from the universe.

Luxury? No. Liberation.

This is the part where I’m supposed to say, “I know it’s just a pen, but…”

No. I won’t say that. Because it’s not just a pen. I know now that. 

It’s the difference between strain and comfort.

Between feeling like a workhorse and feeling like a woman who deserves softness while she works.

It’s about dignity, not decadence.

You see, when you’ve spent your whole life choosing utility, there’s something deeply healing about giving yourself the tools that honor your rhythm. The pen isn’t excessive — it’s what I should’ve used all along. I just didn’t think I deserved it.

Until now.

And Yes, My Hand Is Still Wrapped

I was taking my son to piano class last week. While in the car, I was adjusting my tote and pain rushed through my hand and arm. I tried again. Still painful. When we got there, my hand was in full blown pain. So I had to buy a bandage and wrap it again. 

But here’s the twist: that hand? It still writes.

It just writes slower, gentler, smarter. With tools that don’t punish me for creating.

So no, buying a high-end pen isn’t vanity.

It’s a quiet, radical reclaiming of worth.

It’s telling the world: I will create beauty, but not at the cost of breaking myself.

And next time I reach for a writing tool?

You better believe I’m choosing the one that loves me back.

I bought a bunch of pens, prices be damned. It cost a lot, but my hand and fingers are happy. 

---

'Til my next post,

Stay soft. Stay strong. Stay Glowing.

LET'S GLOW.

With elegance and quiet fire, 

Lady E

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