I kept 24 handmade gratitude tokens in my purse on Friday afternoon. I came home with 5 on Sunday.

My husband surprised me with a birthday weekend getaway. I didn’t know where we were going until the left turn on Highway 1.

“No way,” I said slowly. “We’re not going to the Ritz Carlton, are we?”

He smiled.

I was in pajamas.

An hour earlier he had told me that I should pack for the weekend. “Oh. Where are we going? Do I need to pack a bikini? A dress?” He simply said, “Sure. Whatever you want to wear.”

Since we were bringing the pup, I assumed it would be an Airbnb stay. Our family does casual really well, so I packed hiking clothes, one satin top for dinner, sneakers, and a bikini in case there was a hot tub.

The Ritz Carlton was not on my radar. At all.

By the time we pulled up the circular drive, people were stepping out of black SUVs in tailored coats, glitzy dresses and impossible heels. I looked down at my unbranded Amazon-bought pajamas and wondered why a building could make me feel small.

We were staying there for two nights. In a luxury suite no less. Nobody was questioning whether I belonged. But belonging and believing you belong are not always the same thing.

I almost didn’t take the tokens out of the car.

For years now, I’ve carried these small handmade pieces with me — each one with a name and handwritten note — and given them to people who bring their humanity to their jobs. Make strangers feel welcomed. It’s my way of saying “I see you, too.”

But the facade of a luxury hotel sowed seeds of doubt. Would a handmade token even mean anything here? They’re used to seeing opulence. What would they think of me?

In hindsight, these thoughts say more about me than the hotel.

It didn’t feel right, though, to not acknowledge Matthew, who opened the door when we arrived. Gabriel and Carolina at check-in. Erik, the valet. Rosalina, who graciously allowed Ollie in the club lounge, making an exception for my birthday. Matteo, who found us a terrace table when the restaurant was fully booked for lunch. Sheryl, who brought us blankets in the 52-degree weather. Carlos who turned the sofa into a twin bed for our daughter. Teresa at dinner who made sure I felt celebrated. Magdalena, who cleaned our room.

I handed each one of them a token that had their name on it and a note of thanks.

And I learned about their grandkids, their moms, their commute, their favorite foods.

When I offered Magdalena a slice of birthday cake before we left for the evening, she smiled shyly and thanked me. Later that night, we returned to find a handwritten note waiting on the desk.

“Thank you so very much for the slice of cake. I will enjoy it at the end of my shift.”

My eyes welled with tears. She took the time to write me a note. In cursive, like I do.

The settings change, the humans don’t. Belonging comes from within.

At 48, I’m learning that the gap between “should I?” and “I did” is getting shorter.

And every time I close it, something like Magdalena's note finds its way to me.