Timeless Value vs Planned Obsolescence
Aug 24, 2025
There was a time when things were truly made to last.
Think of a wooden that still stands tall after decades, its drawers gliding open with the familiar ease of countless hands. Think of your grandmother’s heavy saucepan, still simmering soups and stews, its surface marked with the patina of love and shared meals. Think of a wool coat—bought once, worn a thousand times—still draping shoulders with timeless elegance.
I am reminded of this every time I look at the crystal vanity set with the princess mirror I still have from when my Nan was 21. She treasured it, cared for it, and now, decades later, it rests in my hands. The glass still catches the light, the comb still sits snug in its place, and the mirror feels like a portal to another time. It hasn’t just lasted—it has carried the story of her youth, her life, and the love she poured into it.
That’s the beauty of things built to last: they don’t just hold function, they hold memory.
They become more than possessions—they become part of our lineage.
Dining tables once gathered around by grandparents remain steady, their wood carrying the echoes of laughter and stories told late into the night. Cast-iron pans, seasoned with history, continue to nourish bodies and spirits alike. Watches, sewing machines, wooden toys—these weren’t just objects of utility, they were companions for a lifetime. They were designed with care, built with integrity, and meant to endure.
Back then, owning something meant taking pride in it. Repair wasn’t a nuisance—it was part of the story. A patched fabric, a replaced handle, a polished hinge—these weren’t signs of failure, but symbols of devotion.
Now, even expensive things often feel cheap. Planned obsolescence has crept into nearly every corner of our lives—phones, appliances, furniture, clothing—built to break, fray, or fail just after the warranty ends. Worse still, we’ve grown so used to it that we rarely question it. Without realizing it, we’ve been conditioned to accept disposability as normal.
Some treasures and trinkets endure.
I think of the sturdy timber bookshelf that has traveled with me from house to house, carrying stories upon its shelves. The pages of a book my mum read to me as a child, still intact despite the years. The little jewelry box from my childhood—scuffed and worn, yet richer with age. Each of these has proven their worth simply by lasting.
Then there’s my old Discman. Yes—it still works. I can slip in CDs that aren’t even available online anymore, and suddenly I’m transported back to my teenage years. The headphones are clunky, the buttons far from sleek, but the music still plays on—proof that not everything fades with time.
These objects, humble or heirloom, are more than “things.”
They are bridges to memory, connection, and story.
They are proof that durability carries not only usefulness, but also pride of ownership.
And maybe, just maybe, they remind us that it’s time to raise our expectations again—and choose what is truly built to last.
So let me ask you—
What is one item in your home that has outlived expectations?
What story does it carry with it?
Does its journey make you value it even more?
Maybe the things that last are also the things that matter most.
Once upon a time, companies competed on reliability, longevity and aesthetics that aged gracefully.
Durability wasn’t an afterthought—it was the very foundation of business.
Durability wasn’t an afterthought—it was the very foundation of business.
Craftsmanship was a source of pride for both maker and buyer, and there was status in owning something that stood the test of time. A sewing machine wasn’t just a household tool—it was an heirloom. A timber table wasn’t a temporary placeholder—it was the anchor of a family home. Products weren’t meant to be temporary; they were meant to become part of a family’s story—passed down, repaired and cherished.
It was common to expect that a piece of furniture or a kitchen tool would outlive us, not break down within a year. Repair was part of the rhythm of ownership, not an inconvenience but a sign of devotion.
Today, the competition has shifted. Instead of asking, How long will this last? we are bombarded with questions like, Is this the latest? and How new is it? If something isn’t broken, we are convinced it’s out of date. If it still works, we’re told it isn’t stylish enough.
This isn’t by chance—it’s by design.
Business models now revolve around this thing called planned obsolescence: products intentionally built to fail, or marketed as outdated long before their usefulness has ended.
We are whispered to constantly: What you own is too slow, too clunky, too unfashionable, too old.
Planned obsolescence isn’t an accident—it’s engineered fragility.
It keeps us running on a hamster wheel of buying, discarding, and buying again. The saddest part is we have grown so accustomed to it that we quietly expect failure instead of reliability.
I think of my own sturdy bookshelf, which has moved with me more times than I can count. Its surface is marked and scuffed, yet every mark feels like another layer of history.
It hasn’t fallen apart. It hasn’t lost its purpose.
In fact, it has become more valuable to me precisely because it has endured.
Contrast that with so many modern purchases—expensive but fragile, shiny but short-lived.
What’s the oldest working item in your home? How does it feel knowing it has lasted decades longer than things you bought recently?
When was the last time you bought something you expected to last, only for it to give out quickly? How did that affect your trust in the brand—or even in your own choices?
How many things have you replaced in the past year that mysteriously “died” or became obsolete? How did that feel—financially, emotionally, even spiritually?
There is a hidden cost of disposabilty.
Disposability isn’t just financially wasteful—it’s emotionally wasteful.
Disposability isn’t just financially wasteful—it’s emotionally wasteful.
Each time we replace something that should have lasted, we chip away at trust.
Trust in quality.
Trust in value.
Trust in the companies that promise durability, but deliver fragility.
Financially, the cost is obvious—we pay more in the long run when things keep breaking down. But emotionally, there’s a quieter toll. Every replacement carries with it a subtle loss: frustration, grief, even a hollow sense of being let down. It drains not only our wallets, but also our energy, our emotions, and our sense of meaning.
Beyond the personal cost, there is the environmental and spiritual wastefulness. Landfills fill, resources deplete, and we’re left with the unsettling knowledge that we are participating in a system designed to fail us.
Replacing something that should have lasted is more than inconvenient—it can feel quietly heartbreaking. I’ve had appliances that stopped working within months, furniture that fell apart at the seams and clothes that lost their colour after just a few washes, or the zip snagged after a few wears.
Each time, I felt not just annoyed, but a little cheated—a lowering of standards I hadn’t consented to.
Contrast that with the treasures I’ve kept for decades: my Nan’s mirror and crystal vanity set, recipe cards scribbled in my mums handwriting, my still-functioning Discman that transports me back to my teenage years, and my GameBoy Colour.
These things don’t just serve a purpose—they comfort me.
They remind me that quality, care and craftsmanship matter.
That is the difference.
Disposability strips away pride of ownership. It whispers that nothing is worth caring for because nothing is built to endure. But when something lasts, it deepens our relationship with it. We don’t just own it—we grow alongside it.
Do you feel more joy in buying something new, or more pride in keeping something you’ve cared for over time?
What emotions rise in you when something breaks before its time?
Have you ever felt grief when throwing away something that should have lasted longer?
Can you think of something you’ve replaced multiple times in the past decade?
We have accepted disposability as normal—but at what cost to our wellbeing, our planet and our pride of ownership? When we discard rather than repair, we don’t just lose objects—we lose memory, connection, and meaning.
The ritual of maintaining and cherishing belongings is being replaced by an endless cycle of discarding and upgrading. With every loss, a quiet question lingers: what might shift if we returned to valuing what endures?
Because in the end, pride of ownership restores more than trust in objects—it restores meaning.
There is a deep satisfaction that comes from owning something that stands the test of time. A leather bag that softens with age. A solid oak table that grows more beautiful with every scratch and stain. A jacket that becomes a trusted companion through the changing seasons.
Pride of ownership is about more than possession—it’s about relationship. When you own something that lasts, you build a bond with it.
You care for it not because you have to, but because it’s worth caring for.
Endurance carries a beauty all its own.
There is a quiet joy in keeping something for years, even decades, and knowing it still serves you.
Pride of ownership isn’t about shiny newness—it’s about longevity, story and connection. It’s about knowing you’ve invested in something worthy of your time, energy and care.
The pride I feel in still being able to use my old Discman is very different from the fleeting thrill of unboxing a new phone. A phone dazzles for a season—until updates slow it down, batteries fade and it is nudged into obsolescence.
But the Discman—and even my old GameBoy Colour—ask for nothing more than a couple of AA batteries, CD's and game cartridges. They still play the music and games of my youth, many of which can’t be found anywhere else. That, to me, is priceless.
The same is true of the cast-iron pan in my kitchen—well worn but unbeatable. The jewelry box from my childhood—scuffed yet full of memories. The crystal plate and mirror passed down from my Nan—enduring not because they are fancy, but because they carry story. These things don’t just serve a function; they hold my history.
That is the essence of pride of ownership: not simply having something, but growing with it.
There is something quietly radical about keeping something for years and still finding joy in it.
I feel it when I slip into a cardigan that’s walked through countless seasons with me.
When I flip through the worn pages of a childhood book. When I hear the familiar click of my Discman and the music begins, unchanged. These objects aren’t shiny, new, or trendy—but they are reliable, steadfast, and alive with memory.
That’s the magic of pride of ownership.
It isn’t about chasing what’s new. It’s about tending to what endures. It’s about saying: This is worth my care.
This way of seeing is the opposite of the current throwaway culture in society nowadays. Instead of feeling ashamed of “last year’s model,” pride of ownership whispers: Look at this thing that still serves me, still holds value, still carries story.
It isn’t about having more—it’s about having less, but better. Owning things that endure feels grounding. It’s not about showing off; it’s about standing in a quiet kind of pride that says: I chose well. I cared well. I valued what was worth valuing.
Ask yourself:
What is one item in your life that makes you proud—not because of its price tag, but because it has lasted?
Is it the usefulness, the memory, or both that give you that sense of pride?
How would your relationship with your belongings shift if everything you owned was worth keeping?
It’s time to stop lowering our expectations. We deserve things worth keeping.
That means choosing with care—guided by standards, not by marketing hype. Instead of only asking, “Do I like this now?” begin asking, “Will I still value this in five years? Ten years?”
Longevity should be part of the equation.
Durability should be a straight up deal breaker.
The truth is, every purchase is a vote.
A vote or the kind of culture we want to live in.
If we keep voting for cheap, disposable and replaceable, that is exactly what will continue to be produced but if we demand things built to last—if we bring back the pride of owning fewer but better things—we create a ripple effect that can reshape culture.
Somewhere along the way, we lowered our expectations.
We began to believe it was normal for things to fall apart, to replace instead of repair, to upgrade instead of appreciate.
What if we stopped settling? What if we chose with higher standards—demanding durability, reliability, and grace in aging?
When I buy something now, I pause and ask:
Will this last?
Will I still want it in ten years?
Will I take pride in owning it?
If the answer is no, it probably isn’t worth my energy or my money.
The truth is, every purchase is more than a transaction—it’s a vote for the kind of culture we want to support. If we keep voting for disposable, that’s what we will get. If we choose things worth keeping, we can create a shift back toward value, longevity, and pride of ownership.
For me, this means choosing fewer things, but choosing better.
It means patching jeans instead of tossing them out. Polishing furniture so it shines through generations. Saying no to something that looks pretty but won’t last the year.
It means teaching myself to pause before buying and asking: Is this worth my care?
Ask yourself:
Do I buy for price, convenience, or longevity?
What personal standards could guide my future purchases?
Does this item add lasting value to my life?
Will it serve me well through time?
Will I want to maintain and care for it, or will it soon feel disposable?
What are my true non-negotiables when it comes to what I own and invite into my life?
We hold the power to shift culture by shifting what we accept. If we stop buying things designed to break, we create demand for things designed to last.
Instead of buying into a cycle of disposability, we can choose to raise our standards.
We can choose items that age gracefully, that carry story, that invite care.
In the end, pride of ownership isn’t about having more—it’s about having less, but better. It’s about surrounding ourselves with things worth keeping, and in doing so, shaping a culture that values longevity, beauty and meaning once again.
I want to own things that maintain and prove their worth through time—things that grow with me, carry stories, and remind me of the beauty and brilliance of choosing well.
We can break free from the trap of engineered fragility.
We can restore the pride of ownership.
We can return to a culture that values what lasts, not just what is new.
We can restore the pride of ownership.
We can return to a culture that values what lasts, not just what is new.
What we choose to surround ourselves with matters—not only to our wallets but to our hearts, our homes and our collective future. We deserve more than disposability.
We deserve beauty that endures, reliability that stands tall, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing we are surrounded by things that truly matter.
We deserve beauty that endures, reliability that stands tall, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing we are surrounded by things that truly matter.
I want to live in a world where ownership feels meaningful again—where we don’t just collect things, but stories, quality, and pride. Where our belongings prove themselves worthy of us, just as we prove ourselves worthy of caring for them.
For me, that looks like keeping my Nan’s crystal plate and princess mirror safe for another generation. It looks like patching an old piece of clothing because it still holds me warmly.
It looks like listening to a CD on my Discman, reliving the music that shaped my teenage years.
It looks like opening a recipe card in my mum’s handwriting and smiling at her presence woven into the ink.
These are the things that last.
These are the things that matter.
These are the things that matter.
Because longevity isn’t only about durability—it’s about memory, connection, and meaning. These items remind me that some things are not disposable.
They are worthy of keeping.
We don’t have to settle for fragility disguised as progress. We can choose pride of ownership. We can reclaim the beauty of longevity.
That is the standard I want to hold in my life: to choose, keep, and care for what truly lasts.
Throughout this blog, I have woven in reflection questions—because reflection is how we shift from unconscious consumerism to conscious choice.
What’s the oldest working item in your home?
Do you feel more joy buying something new or more pride keeping something that’s lasted?
What standards could you set for yourself when buying something new?
These aren’t throwaway questions—they are the kind that change how you see your relationship with things. When you pause to answer them, you begin to reclaim your power from the cycle of disposability. You start to notice where you’ve settled for less, and where you could demand more.
Reflection questions invite us back into awareness.
Awareness is where change begins.
If we want to reclaim value and pride in what we own, it begins with the questions we ask before we buy.
Here are some standards I have started to use, and you might like to, too:
Will this last?
Does it have the quality, durability or design to serve me well for years, not months?
Would I still want this in 5 or 10 years or will it feel disposable, dated, or irrelevant too quickly?
Can it be repaired?
Is this something I can maintain, mend or restore if it breaks or is it destined for the bin?
Do I feel proud of this choice?
Does buying this make me feel aligned with my values—or just caught up in convenience and marketing?
Does it hold story or meaning?
Will this object carry memory, connection or value beyond its function?
Am I choosing based on standards or settling out of habit?
Am I buying this because it’s the best choice for me or because it’s what is right in front of me?
Are you choosing Planned Obsolescence OR.Timeless Value?
Share in the comments what is something you own that was designed not to be thrown away—something that has truly stood the test of time and still brings you pride of ownership? I would love to hear about the treasures you have kept, whether it’s a family heirloom, a beloved piece of furniture or even an old Discman that still plays the soundtrack of your youth. These are the things that remind us that durability, beauty and value still matter.
