It seemed like such a simple thing — two clothespins.

One in each of my hands.

The first: dense, warm, made of solid hardwood. Its surface was smoothed by decades of use, its spring still tight, its purpose intact. My dad told me it came from the 1960s. “This one used to hold up your grandfather’s overalls,” he said. “Still works like it did the day it was made.”

The second: newer, lighter, thinner. It looked the same — but it didn’t feel the same. The wood was softer, paler, the spring already wobbly. It had been marketed online as “extra durable.” But even without using it, we both knew — it wouldn’t last.

Then my dad said something I’ll never forget:

“This is the story of everything.”

At first, I didn’t understand. Two clothespins. One old, one new. So what?

But then he explained.

What I held in my hands was a symbol of a much bigger shift — the move from things built to last… to things built to sell. From craftsmanship to mass production. From thoughtful durability to intentional disposability.

It’s called planned obsolescence — and it’s everywhere.

Most products today aren’t designed to endure. They’re designed to degrade. Quietly. Gradually. A phone with a sealed battery. A washing machine with plastic gears. A jacket that peels after one season. And why? Because if it breaks, you buy again. And again. And again.

It might seem clever. Profitable. Efficient. But the cost? That’s the part they don’t advertise.

We pay with landfills that overflow. With oceans choked by plastic. With wallets emptied not by choice, but by design. And worst of all, we pay with our mindset — learning, without realizing it, that nothing is meant to last.

And it doesn’t stop with products.

Look closer, and you’ll see this belief bleeding into everything:
Temporary homes. Disposable friendships. Fast news. Fast fashion. Fast food.
Our culture is sprinting through life, tossing aside anything that slows us down — including the values that once grounded us.

But here’s the thing: it wasn’t always like this.

My dad’s clothespin — the old one — was proof. It held not just laundry, but a different philosophy. One rooted in respect. In patience. In care. It was built by someone who expected it to serve more than one season. More than one owner. Maybe more than one lifetime.

And we can build like that again.

Not just in what we buy — but in what we believe. In the relationships we tend. The homes we care for. The communities we protect. The planet we share.

Because when we choose things made to last, we begin to remember something deeper:

That we, too, are made to last.

And that just maybe — the story of everything doesn’t have to end in a landfill.

It can begin in the palm of a hand, holding two clothespins.

One broken.

One still strong.