WHAT MATTERS, LASTS

I watch people moving through pedestrian zones with large shopping bags, weaving around one another, stepping aside, occasionally blocking each other—as if haste were a quiet promise of a successful celebration of love. At the same time, social media stories flood the screens: opened little doors, visually thoughtful, aesthetically curated, with a keen sense of staging and storytelling. A world that brings me joy. A world I love, understand, and feel at home in: marketing at its best.

Every product is deliberately staged, every message designed to spark desire, evoke emotion, and suggest relevance. Much of it is creative, clever, and executed with strong craftsmanship. And yes—it works. After all, no one wants to miss the next trend or feel as though they might be missing out.

At the same time, this understanding also means recognizing the difference between promise and actual value. Not everything that shines truly changes everyday life—and that does not diminish either the quality of the staging or the fascination of this world. Rather, it points to a conscious way of engaging with it: consumption not out of rejection, but from a reflective stance. From the awareness that marketing excites, inspires, and drives momentum—and that not every (personal) moment of excitement has to result in ownership.

And so I catch myself having that familiar thought: I could use that. A silk hair tie that protects hair overnight and makes mornings easier. A special brush that promises gentler detangling and even distribution of care products. A thoughtful shape, clever accessories, practical details. All of it makes sense. And it is tempting. And yet I know: it is not a necessity.

Not because I deny myself or dismiss the benefit, but because much of what I already own continues to serve its purpose well. Because the brush I bought years ago after a visit to the hairdresser was already a small upgrade back then—and still is. And because I recognize the dynamic behind it: there will always be something presented as better, newer, more indispensable. But not every impulse needs to turn into action. And not every desire requires immediate fulfillment.

Life is rich even without all of these products. Especially during the most consumption-heavy time of the year, this truth can easily fade into the background. When we are less attentive toward ourselves, it is easy to get caught in a swirl of offers and promises—in the hope that one particular product will complete something that seems to be missing.

Yet more often than not, it is less about lack and more about perspective. About how consciously we notice how fleeting the excitement around something new can be. How quickly something that felt special becomes part of everyday life. And how little of it truly fulfills us in the long run.

What gifts exist beyond little doors, packaging, and shiny ribbons? Perhaps it is the people gathered around the table. Conversations, laughter, shared time. A warmth that cannot be measured—even when frost lingers outside.

While we reach for more and more, we sometimes overlook how much is already there. The happiness that surrounds us often reveals itself in small, quiet moments—in memories you can’t buy, and that remain.