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?