When Things Were Made to Last

Part 2 of 7: The True Cost of Things

In addition to our current addiction to shopping—at least in the part of the world I live in—there’s a steady, simmering interest in “vintage” and antique items. This fascination ebbs and flows like most trends. But beneath the aesthetic lies a deeper desire: for quality things that last.

 Before the Industrial Revolution—and even in the early to mid 1900s—the cost of production was significantly higher than it is today. Items required skilled labor, quality raw materials, and lengthy transportation. Most things were made to last, not mass-produced. Time, energy, and craftsmanship were embedded into the objects people owned, and that made them valuable.

The 20th century, marked by two world wars and the Great Depression, demanded frugality and ingenuity. Mending and reusing weren’t lifestyle choices—they were economic necessities. During and after the war years, mass production lines originally created for military equipment were redirected to manufacture consumer goods. This pivot made items more accessible, and rightfully so—after years of hardship, people deserved comfort. But it didn’t stop there. What began as a necessary shift became a mindset: more, faster, easier.

 Lightbulbs were once made to last far longer than they do today. In fact, the Phoebus Cartel—a group of major lightbulb manufacturers in the 1920s—agreed to limit bulb lifespans to 1,000 hours to increase sales. This marked one of the earliest and most well-documented examples of planned obsolescence. It wasn’t just a technical shift; it represented a psychological one. Things no longer had to endure—they just had to sell.

 This shift in mindset, from durability to disposability, also coincided with changes in affordability. When prices were high relative to income, owning something carried weight. People naturally had fewer things. One winter coat, not five. Not because they were minimalist by choice, but because each purchase required careful thought.  If something was a significant portion of your budget, you thought twice. And when you did make that investment—whether in a dress, a radio, or a dining table—it was done with a kind of reverence. What we now call “heirlooms” were often kept not only for their emotional ties or craftsmanship, but because they were deeply useful. They stood the test of time precisely because they were used.

 My grandmother had an orange plastic box with a once-white translucent lid—it eventually faded to beige and became opaque. She brought it back from Iran in the 1980s during the war. She used it to hold the phulkas and rotis she cooked with generous dollops of butter—sometimes papadums too. I have no idea where that box is now. If it’s still in my mother’s kitchen, it’s outlived my grandmother. But more importantly, the memories tied to it have transformed it from a simple storage container into something of real value.

 In much the same way, I recently restored an antique daybed passed down from my great-grandfather. The investment I made was in restoring and shipping it—but in return, I’ve gained so much more. I think about everyone who has rested on this bed over the years. What conversations were had, what dreams were dreamt? I can’t wait to make my own memories on it. In some ways, that act of restoration felt like stitching time itself—binding the past to the present.

 Of course, today’s affordability is due in part to remarkable advances in production and technology. There is immense value in accessibility—more people can afford more things. But there’s also been a trade-off. When it becomes easier and cheaper to buy something new than to fix what we have, we lose something—not just materially, but emotionally. The cost of convenience adds up—not just in our bank accounts, but in our sense of connection to the things we own.

 What does it mean for our connection with objects now, if everything is replaceable with a casual “oh well—it didn’t cost much anyway”? Does that mindset bleed into how we interact with people? Is that what our consumption online is doing—fostering cheap connection while leaving us starved for real value?

 As we begin to feel the fatigue of cheapness, of disposability, we’re rediscovering the beauty of care. And maybe, like so much else in life, we are entering another cycle: one where repair and reuse are not nostalgic but necessary. Not a trend, but a return. Skills like those of a cobbler, a tailor, or a general handyman don’t just reflect a bygone era. They are quietly becoming essential again.

 I don’t think we need to romanticize the past. There’s a place for having different coats for different activities. But if we find ourselves choosing between five nearly identical ones, simply for color, maybe it’s time to ask: could we borrow instead? Could we want less, and choose better? Yes, that’s less convenient—but have we confused convenience with value?

 When everything cost more, consumption was slower. More intentional. The investment wasn’t just financial—it was emotional, and relational. Objects mattered because they helped us build lives with care.

 So it begs the question: If the cost of something truly required our investment—of money, time, or care—would we still treat it as disposable? And if not, what would that say about how we ought to live?

The True Cost of Things

Part 1 of 7: The Question We Don’t Ask

How often do we find ourselves drawn to something—a shirt, a gadget, a home décor item—and without hesitation think,

That’s so cute. I need it. Then, almost as a reflex, we glance at the price. Only $X? Even better. The cost becomes the final nudge, not a moment for pause. But what if that same item was $X + 50? Would we still feel the same way? Would we still want it with the same urgency?

One of the few impulse purchases I made last year was a jumpsuit I found on sale for $26. The original price? Supposedly $100. Of course, we all know “original” prices are often just a game. Still, the jumpsuit was practical. Neutral. It met many of my needs. And yet... when I look at it, I don’t feel much joy. If I’m being honest, a big reason I bought it was because it was a deal. That’s the thing about prices: They rarely tell the whole story.

They don’t reveal what it truly took to make that item—from the human labor behind it, to the raw materials extracted, to the waste and emissions left behind. Economists have a name for these hidden ripple effects: externalities — costs or benefits passed along to people, communities, or ecosystems who never agreed to the exchange. Sometimes, externalities are positive. Like when a city transforms an unused lot into a public park, benefiting the whole community. But more often, especially in fast fashion and mass manufacturing, they’re negative:

• Factories pumping toxins into water.

• Communities forced to live with polluted air.

• Workers paid unfairly or treated poorly.

Those aren’t costs reflected on a price tag—But someone, somewhere, is still paying for them. And so the question lingers: How would our choices shift if price tags captured the full weight of a product’s journey? What if we were asked not just to buy, but to acknowledge the true value—and impact— of what we consume?

This question has been sitting with me for a while—quietly bothering me every time I reach for something just because it’s a “good deal.”

I want to explore it out loud:

• Why has the word dupe become a badge of honor?

• How did we come to equate low price with high value?

• And what’s been lost in that exchange?

 I want to unpack the hidden costs we rarely account for— those externalities that silently shape the world behind our purchases— and imagine what it might look like to reconnect price with meaning. To shift toward a way of consuming that reflects what we truly value— not just what we can afford in the moment.

 So I can’t help but ask: What if we actually saw those costs? Would we consume differently if the price of things included what they really took— from the planet, from the people who made them, from the systems we rely on? I’m not asking this to guilt-trip anyone into giving up their favorite sweater or gadget. But maybe we need a different lens— One that helps us look at price, value, and impact side by side. One that reveals how the numbers on a tag rarely tell the whole story.

A Note from Me

Welcome to the first issue of Modern Manner—a space to explore how we navigate our lives in today's fast-paced, interconnected world. The name is both a playful nod to my initials and a reflection of what I hope this publication becomes. It speaks to the modern ways we move through life and the manner in which we do so—with thoughtfulness, intention, and an appreciation for the lessons from the past. At its core, this magazine focuses on sustainability and intentionality—both personally and within our communities.

This project marks a personal milestone—an opportunity for me to step outside my comfort zone. While I'm not exactly an introvert, I've always been selective about what I share. Spring, a season of renewal, feels like the perfect time to start this journey. A year ago, I was in a very different place—far from hopeful and definitely not ready for change. The idea of taking this bold step felt as distant as another galaxy. But as I step into this new chapter, I'm embracing openness and possibility.

 The idea for Modern Manner came about unexpectedly. Call it escapism or daydreaming, but I began noticing that concepts I had been mulling over were becoming real—apps, services, and ideas popping up online. Instead of waiting for someone else to tap into my vision, I decided to take action myself.

My deep love for organization shapes my perspective on beauty—it's not just about aesthetics but about creating spaces that reflect intention. Whether it's a room, a backpack, or any area of our lives, thoughtful curation shifts our mood and perspective, making life feel lighter. I see beauty, form, and function as an ongoing evolution that mirrors the fluid nature of the world around us. It's never perfect, but it's always adapting.

This magazine isn't meant to be an instruction manual. It's a conversation about seeking beauty in the everyday, driven by my belief that meaningful change comes from action. I'm sharing my thoughts in hope they spark bold ideas in your own life. If these reflections resonate, I invite you to adapt them to your unique journey and challenge the status quo. My vision for Modern Manner is simple: to inspire change through action, creating a journey that's as much about the process as the destination.