It starts innocently enough. A young man, maybe twenty-eight, maybe thirty-five, is pacing the glossy floors of a jewelry store, palms sweating, rehearsing a sentence in his head that he won’t fully remember when the time comes. The sales assistant, all smiles and soft lighting, leads him to a velvet box. He opens it. Inside lies a diamond ring, perfectly cut, shining like it holds a secret. And in that moment, the question isn’t really whether she’ll say yes. It’s whether this tiny stone can carry the weight of a lifetime’s promise. It’s a script we’ve seen play out not just in movies, but in our minds, long before we ever fall in love.
We’ve been told that this is what love looks like. A man choosing a diamond, a woman chosen. A grand gesture that somehow proves devotion. And we don’t question it—not really—because it’s everywhere. It’s in magazine ads where a woman’s eyes well up as a man slides a ring onto her finger. It’s in the Christmas commercials where the resolution to a fight is not an apology, but a pendant. It’s in the Instagram proposals with sunsets, drone footage, and the obligatory “she said yes” caption. It’s so deeply ingrained that we’ve stopped noticing how much of it is performance.
But beneath this choreography lies something more complicated: a set of expectations about who we are, what we want, and how we’re supposed to love. The diamond isn’t just a gift—it’s a social signal, a gendered symbol, and often, a silent negotiation of roles.
I remember a friend, Anna, who once confided in me that she felt disappointed when her partner didn’t propose with a diamond. Not because she particularly liked diamonds, or even wanted a ring at all. But because she felt it meant he wasn’t “serious.” She’d grown up seeing women cry over diamond rings in every romantic comedy, and somewhere along the line, that image fused with the idea of being truly loved. When she finally bought herself a small diamond necklace years later—after a promotion at work—she laughed and said, “Well, at least someone’s recognizing my worth.” Half-joking, half-telling a truth.
This is the quiet power of advertising—not the hard sell, but the soft suggestion. It doesn’t just tell us what to buy; it tells us what we’re supposed to feel when we buy it. Or when we receive it. Or don’t.
For decades, diamond campaigns have operated on a very specific formula. The man buys, the woman receives. He is assertive, financially capable, nervous but decisive. She is beautiful, surprised, emotional. Her value is confirmed by the giving; his by the giving’s expense. It’s a delicate exchange of power disguised as romance. And if you’ve ever seen a holiday commercial that ends with a couple kissing after he pulls out a velvet box, you’ve seen this formula in action.
But the world is changing faster than the ads. Walk into any urban coffee shop on a weekday morning and you’ll find women scrolling through financial apps, managing teams remotely, negotiating salaries. They’re founding companies, buying homes, and yes—buying their own jewelry. The old fantasy where a woman waits passively to be chosen doesn’t fit anymore. It’s like trying to wear a dress you loved in college—it meant something once, but it doesn’t quite fit who you are now.
And yet, the advertising lags behind. Too often, it still paints love as a transaction, femininity as adornment, and masculinity as performance. It still uses sparkle to distract from substance. Take Valentine’s Day campaigns, for example. How many of them actually speak to the complexity of real relationships? The fights, the compromises, the shared grocery lists and long conversations about rent and in-laws? Very few. Instead, we’re given a fantasy where all problems melt away if you spend enough on something shiny.
I knew a couple once—both women—who went shopping for rings together. They were practical, thoughtful, full of laughter. They didn’t want the diamond for its symbolism. They wanted it because they liked the way it looked. But when they walked into a high-end jewelry store, the salesperson looked confused. “Which one of you is proposing?” he asked. They looked at each other and laughed. “We both are,” one of them said. And that moment, simple as it was, revealed just how narrow the industry’s idea of love still is.
There’s something painful about being left out of the story. If you don’t see yourself in the ads, does that mean your love is less valid? Less deserving of ritual? Less beautiful? These aren’t abstract questions. They are the kinds of questions people ask themselves quietly, walking past store windows or scrolling through glossy online catalogues that don’t seem to include them.
And it’s not just LGBTQ+ couples who feel this disconnect. Increasingly, even straight men are beginning to ask: why is this all on me? Why is love something I’m supposed to prove with my wallet, while my feelings remain unspoken? Why can’t I be the one who receives a gift, or cries, or wants to feel chosen?
What’s more, many people now approach diamonds not just as symbols, but as financial decisions. They ask: What’s the resale value? Is this lab-grown? Is it ethically sourced? These are smart, relevant questions. But they don’t fit easily into the fairy-tale language of traditional ads. They introduce complexity. And complexity isn’t romantic. Or at least, that’s what the marketers would have us believe.
But maybe romance is changing, too. Maybe real romance is sitting at a kitchen table, comparing price points on lab-created diamonds and deciding to split the cost. Maybe it’s two people choosing each other, not because a campaign told them to, but because they’ve written their own story.
And maybe the diamond industry should start paying attention to those stories. Because they’re everywhere. In the woman who buys herself a ring to celebrate five years of sobriety. In the man who chooses a minimalist band because he hates attention but loves his partner. In the couple who skips rings altogether and puts the money toward IVF. These are the love stories of today—not perfect, not packaged, but deeply human.
The truth is, people don’t need to be sold love. They already have it. What they want is to see it reflected—honestly, respectfully, inclusively. They want to feel like they’re not being manipulated into a script written decades ago, but invited into a conversation about what matters now.
The most successful diamond brands of the future will be the ones that let go of the fantasy and embrace the real. That stop whispering “forever” and start asking: “What does forever mean to you?” That recognize that love is not one-size-fits-all, and neither is identity, or gender, or joy.
We are, after all, not just buyers—we are storytellers. And the stories we choose to wear matter.