Lessons Learned from Unusual Purchases

During college, I went through a phase where I bought bizarre things just to feel interesting. Not because I needed them. Not because they made sense. Just because I wanted to stand out. And honestly? I was lonely, insecure, and trying way too hard to be someone I wasn’t.

One of my worst decisions was a pair of Yeezys. I’d convinced myself that owning Kanye-level shoes would somehow spark Kanye-level creativity. Spoiler: they were probably fake… and I never even wore them. They sat in my closet like a $200 reminder that you can’t buy your way into being someone else.

But the crown jewel of my questionable purchases? An 8-foot teddy bear.

At the time, I thought it was hilarious. Whimsical. Maybe even “quirky in a charming way.” I imagined myself lounging on it, reading books, scrolling my iPad—like some off-brand Disney character who had their life together.

Reality check: you cannot have your life together and own an 8-foot teddy bear.

That thing became the unofficial third roommate.
It lived in my friend’s empty bedroom.
Then my mom’s attic.
Then a corner of my apartment where it stared at guests like a giant, overstuffed cry for help.

Moving it required a small team and a level of upper-body strength I definitely did not have. And no matter where I put it, it swallowed the entire room. It was less “fun décor” and more “soft, furry burden.”

To be fair, I named him Brody, and yes, I sometimes sat on him while reading. But for every five minutes of comfort, there were months of regret. Brody wasn’t a seat; he was a symbol—of trying to fill an internal void with external nonsense.

Looking back, I get why I bought all that stuff. I thought standing out meant owning unusual things. But being different isn’t about Yeezys you never wear or a bear that weighs more than your emotional baggage.

It’s about who you are when no one’s looking.

I wish I’d spent less money trying to look unique and more time becoming someone who was unique—developing my skills, my passions, my actual personality. Turns out, individuality can’t be delivered in a cardboard box.

So if you’re tempted to buy something outrageous just to feel special, take it from someone who once lived with a stuffed animal the size of a refrigerator:
the things you own won’t make people care about you.

But the way you show up in the world will.

And Brody?
He’s still around.
Mostly because no one knows how to get rid of him.