Eight weeks ago, I had to make one of the biggest sacrifices in my almost twenty-one years of life: I spent quarters from my coin collection. Dirty clothes, city Laundromats, and laziness in not wanting to break bills for change drove me to make this poor decision.

Of all things, I decided to collect quarters in my childhood when new state coins were in the progress of production. My goal was to have one of each state such that I could one day compile and arrange them into a United-States-esque shape to hang on the wall or place in between the glass of a coffee table. I’ve always reasoned that this collection was a result of curiosity and a desire to travel throughout the land that calls me its citizen. In retrospect, it was that plus a longing to preserve that which I worked my five-year-old ass off for. It was my first exposure to gaining physical rewards for my human capital.

These quarters did not come easily. These quarters held sentiment; they replenished my young blood, sweat and tears, and I greeted them with a glimmer in my eyes equal to their glimmer under the neon and fluorescent bulbs in my parents’ takeout restaurant.

I spent half my childhood under those lights, scribbling on math worksheets, sketching old ladies, reading Anastasia repeatedly, marinating in peanut oil and fumes. I didn’t always mind, though, because at the end of the day, I always had the opportunity to greet that glimmer—if I wiped all the tables in the restaurant.

Back then, some kids got weekly allowances; I got food whenever I wanted and a quarter every night I accomplished my task. Fantastik all-purpose spray in my left hand, wet rag in my right hand, I abolished every glaring soy sauce splatter and even every surreptitious wonton soup splash with my mind on a silver Washington. No shine on the tables meant no shine in my eye.

The compensation wasn’t much—definitely not enough to support my lavish lifestyle of 69-cent Kit-Kat bars—so it held more sentimental value than anything practical. Regardless, it was enough to put me to work scrubbing away at faux wood and stainless steel.

These quarters weren’t silver platters that I was just handed, but rather, a reminder of the time and effort that went into seizing an opportunity. They gleamed that I had earned something all on my own, and the collection expanded to radiate a purpose for my actions. I took pride in my earnings, however small because they illustrated that the smaller things accumulate into something priceless. Some would call it synergy.

Productivity doesn’t end at self-satisfaction; it’s the start of an endless system that constantly rewards us for our initial investment of time, effort, and risk. These quarters were my recollection of what it means to work—and work hard at that. Instead of hoarding them, though, it’s time to change the change for the rinse cycle. A finished collection doesn’t mean the work is done; a new investment is always waiting to bargain with our energy.

It may be vicious, but it is also gratifying. Every seven minutes of my childhood that I spent degreasing tables now translates into seven minutes of drying, and I can now bundle blissfully in a warm lavender-scented sweater thanks to my diligent five-year-old ass.