06/07/2025
doesn't serve your , revenues or longterm success. It doesn't serve your customers and it certainly fails society and our planet.
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My dad handed me two clothespins. “This,” he said, “is the story of everything.”
In one hand: a clothespin from the 1960s. Solid, dense hardwood — likely maple or beech — warm to the touch, smoothed by time and use. It still works perfectly, some 60 years later.
In the other: a clothespin from 2025. Lighter, paler wood, maybe pine or poplar. It feels brittle. The spring is thinner, less stable. It was marketed online as “extra durable.” My dad raised an eyebrow.
At first glance, it’s just two clothespins. But in truth, it’s a snapshot of an entire economic philosophy — the shift from durability to disposability. From stewardship to consumption. From craftsmanship to cost-cutting.
This is planned obsolescence in action.
We don’t often think about how products are intentionally designed to fail. That a company might choose materials not for longevity, but for built-in expiration. Why? Because a product that lasts is a product that doesn’t need to be bought again. And if it doesn’t need to be bought again, it doesn’t generate continuous profit.
So, to keep the wheels of commerce turning, products must break. Slowly, subtly — a frayed wire here, a cracked hinge there. Just enough to send us back to the store. Again and again. Not because we want more, but because what we had was never built to last.
It might seem like a clever business strategy — but the costs are everywhere.
We see it in our landfills, overflowing with the remnants of yesterday’s purchases. We feel it in our wallets, spending more over time to replace what shouldn’t need replacing. And perhaps most invisibly, we feel it in our spirits — growing accustomed to the idea that nothing is meant to endure, not even the things we once cherished.
But what if this philosophy doesn’t just apply to objects? What if it’s conditioned us to treat relationships, homes, communities — even the Earth — as temporary, disposable, easily replaced?
What if the very fabric of our culture has been rewoven in the image of the broken clothespin?
Because make no mistake: this model is unsustainable. A planet cannot withstand infinite waste from a species that insists on building everything for planned failure. Resources are finite. Landfills are finite. Time is finite.
And yet, the good news is, this clothespin from the 1960s reminds us that another way is possible. That we once made things to last — and we can again. That quality, intention, and respect for materials matter. That we can design for repair instead of replacement. For continuity instead of collapse.
The story in my palm is about more than laundry. It’s about the choices we make — and the world they create.
