Labubus have been copping a fair bit of hate lately, and while I’m not personally invested, there’s no reason to ridicule other people’s interests. That mix of rarity, the chase and reward is where the real magic of collecting lies. It’s easy to see why so many fall down the rabbit hole. Loving something that others don’t quite understand isn’t strange. It’s human.
My version of labubus was a group of quirky plush toys. They weren’t popular or expensive, just adorable, small-eyed, big-smiled figurines that I happened to find completely charming. I didn’t mean to adopt them, but one or two turned into a growing little family. No one else really saw what made them special, yet a couple of my friends gifted some to me without any judgement. I kept them for years, simply because they made me happy.
In my mid twenties, I redecorated my room, decided I’d outgrown soft toys, and donated the lot.
Not long after I became a mum, those funny little faces returned to me in a wave of nostalgia. I searched online and was surprised to find them, most still new with tags, but one stood out. The hippy chick, soft and familiar, with a black stain on her dress that looked just like the one I remembered. I picked her up from a house only ten minutes from where I grew up. She looked exactly the same. Maybe it wasn’t the one I gave away, but it didn’t matter. It felt like she’d come home.
