Labubus have been getting a fair bit of hate lately. I’m not personally invested, but I see no reason to mock what others enjoy. Collecting thrives on rarity, the chase, and the reward. It triggers dopamine: a spark when you spot one, a bigger hit when you score it, and a warm afterglow each time you see it. That “maybe this is the secret edition” keeps the loop going and hooks people.
My version of Labubus was a group of quirky plush toys. They weren’t popular or expensive, just small-eyed, big-smiled figurines that I found completely charming. One or two became a little family without me really planning it. Most people didn’t notice their appeal, yet a couple of friends still gifted me some without judgement. I held onto them for years because they made me happy.
In my mid-twenties I redecorated my room, decided I’d moved past toys, and donated the lot.
After becoming a mum, those funny little faces came rushing back in a wave of nostalgia. I searched online and found them still floating around, some even new with tags. One in particular caught my eye: the hippy chick, soft and familiar, with a black stain on her dress like the one I remembered. She turned up in a house only ten minutes from where I grew up. She looked exactly the same. Maybe it wasn’t the original, but that didn’t matter. It felt like she had come home.
