They may look like harmless little toys, but Labubu figurines say a lot about the way consumerism has disguised itself as self-care, and Tara Nagra has a lot to say about it.
They’re small, creepy, and completely sold out. If you’ve spent any time on TikTok recently, you have probably seen the rise of Labubu – the wide-eyed, troll-like figurines that have become the new Gen Z obsession. Originally part of the designer toy world, Labubus are now being unboxed in ASMR hauls, hunted like Pokémon cards, and exchanged for triple the price on resale sites.
But the rise of Labubu isn’t just a quirky internet trend. For me, it’s a perfect case study in how consumerism is being rebranded as comfort, and how, in a world that feels increasingly unstable, buying a tiny plastic goblin feels like control.
These toys have quickly become a soft status symbol for chronically online girlies, because they promise a hit of serotonin and an aesthetic boost to your shelf. But when the most comforting thing we can do for ourselves is… buy a £15 mystery toy from a vending machine? I feel like that says more about our emotional economy than it does about our taste in figurines.
Of course, there’s nothing inherently wrong with collecting things. But Labubu is just the tip of the iceberg. From Sonny Angels to Erewhon hauls to matcha kits curated for your “aesthetic era,” we’re deep in a moment where hyper-consumption is repackaged as wellness, minimalism, or inner-child healing.“Soft living” just becomes an excuse to keep consuming… just with better lighting and cuter packaging.
But there’s a reason this kind of buying feels so seductive. We live in a world that’s increasingly uncertain – politically, economically, environmentally, so capitalism has adapted to this by offering us micro-doses of control. If everything else is chaotic, maybe owning the right teddy, lip gloss, or hand-carved ceramic mug will help us feel anchored. But it never really does.
For young adults, especially women, these curated objects offer a kind of childlike safety, almost a regression to cuteness under the umbrella of “self-care.” But is it actually healing, or just another way for brands to monetise the emotional burnout of being alive right now?
So Labubu might be ‘fun’ and ‘aesthetic’, but when comfort comes pre-packaged and priced, maybe it’s time to ask: what are we really trying to soothe… and who’s profiting from it?
