Stuff

Last week, in a mindless moment, I bought a pair of cheap wired earbuds at the supermarket. They were perched by the checkout, radiating convenience. My current headphones are bulky, awkward to carry around, and these—well, these were small, and priced so low it felt like a steal. And yes, I knew better. I knew they wouldn’t be great. I knew they probably came from somewhere no one likes to think too hard about. But they were cheap so I placed them on the conveyor carrying my groceries off to the cashier.

Yesterday they died. I figured out what was wrong, but there was no fixing them. And so, they went into the trash, another thing to forget about. Except I couldn’t quite forget, because it wasn’t just the earbuds. It was the pattern—the endless loop of buying things that aren’t made to last, that I could very well live without, that I don’t relate to and that ultimately leave me a little emptier than before.

This is what we do, isn’t it? We buy because we’re seduced. By price, by convenience, by the fleeting rush of something new. It’s easy. Too easy. Everywhere you turn, there’s something promising to make your life better, easier, more exciting—for the price of a coffee, for a limited time only, for now. We buy without thinking because, in that moment, it feels justified. And then it doesn’t.

But it doesn’t have to be this way. Imagine, instead, the things you’ve held onto for years. A pair of leather boots, for example. Not the kind you picked up in some megastore, but the kind you bought from the shoemaker. The ones stitched together by someone whose face you know, whose shop smells like leather and wood polish, and whose hands bear the marks of decades of craft. They weren’t cheap, but they fit like a glove and got better with time—molding to your feet, taking on a patina that only comes from years of wear and care. When the sole wears thin, you don’t toss them. You return to the same craftsman to have them repaired, and maybe he shares a story about the leather, the tools he uses, or the history of your shoes.

This is what happens when things have a face, a story, a soul. You don’t just own them; you form a relationship with them. You take care of them because they’re worth it—because someone put care into making them. These aren’t disposable objects churned out by machines in some distant factory; they’re pieces of your life. You’re not just a consumer anymore. You’re part of something deeper, something local, something human.

Or take the table I made myself. It’s not perfect. The legs are a little uneven, and the finish could be better, but none of that matters. Because I know it. Every joint, every knot in the wood—I know it like the back of my hand. And when the wobbly leg finally gives out, I won’t throw it away. I’ll fix it, because I built it, and because it means something to me. That’s the thing about making something yourself: you can’t help but care for it. It’s not just a table anymore; it’s your table.

Here’s a radical idea: maybe we don’t even need most of the stuff we think we do. Seriously. Look at nature. Does a bird need a juicer? Does a fox need a matching luggage set? Nature provides the essentials for living, but we’re so busy chasing the latest “must-have” that we forget how little we actually need. The happiest people—monks, nomads, your neighbor who only owns three shirts—have figured this out. They’re not weighed down by clutter, physical or mental. They’ve found freedom in enough.

So here’s the real challenge: stop being seduced. It’s hard—I know. Ads are engineered to exploit your brain’s weak spots. Stores are designed to make you feel like you’re winning some kind of consumer lottery. But every time you resist, you’re reclaiming a little bit of yourself. Ask yourself: Do I actually need this? Will it last? Will I care about it tomorrow? If the answer is no, walk away.

Because when we stop chasing disposable stuff, something magical happens. We start cherishing what we already have. We repair. We invest. We create. And we connect—not just with our possessions, but with the world around us. That’s where the real joy is: not in the next thing you buy, but in the things that stay. The things that matter. The things that, with care, grow better over time.

So no, I won’t be buying another pair of throwaway earbuds. I’ve learned my lesson—again. Next time, I’ll take a second to think. Because new isn’t better when it’s built to break. Cheap isn’t a bargain when it costs the planet. And convenience isn’t worth much when it leaves you right back where you started.