What Are We Really Buying?

The U.S. is raising tariffs on products made in China — a political move, yes, but also one that’s revealing something deeper about human nature.

Luxury brands are being exposed. A bag that costs $300 to produce is sold for over $10,000. Clearly, they’re not selling just a bag. They’re selling self-worth.

They’re selling us the illusion that if we carry that logo, we’ll feel better about who we are — more valuable, more admired, more seen. But here’s the uncomfortable question to all of us, I include myself: Why do we need to pay fashion at high prices to feel worthy?

Someone could say, “It’s an investment.”
Yes — some iconic pieces, like Hermès for example, do retain or increase in value. But is everyone really buying to resell? Or is “investment” just another way to justify emotional spending?

Others  might say, “If I have the money and it doesn’t hurt me, why not?”
That’s valid too. Pain is relative. Spending $10 for one person might feel the same as spending $10,000 for another. But even then, it’s worth asking: What are we really paying for?

Someone could say I am paying ‘craftsmanship and legacy’ — “I buy it because I appreciate the legacy. The story of the founder, the artisan work, the heritage.”
That makes sense too. These luxury brands often carry powerful stories of artistry and resilience. But now, many luxury goods are made in China, with new supply chains and new labor realities. The artistry sure still exist — but is it the same story we’re paying for? Because at the end of the day, it's not the founder's struggle we're wearing — it’s how we use that legacy to project our own identity. The deeper question isn't just about the story of the brand. It’s about how we, the consumers, use that story. Are we really honoring heritage — or are we using it as a symbol of status?

But then comes the deeper layer: belonging.
Some buy luxury to be part of a group, a culture, a statement — to signal, “I made it. I belong to something.” And honestly… that’s totally human. We all want to belong. We want to be seen. We want to feel like we’re part of something bigger than ourselves.

But maybe this is where we pause and ask: What kind of belonging are we really searching for? One built through brands? Or one built through presence, authenticity, and connection? 

Because when our identity depends on what we wear, we may be trading our true self for a version of ourselves designed by others to impress others. Isn’t it ironic?

And that brings me to something personal.
I recently launched a line of velvet cardigans. I’m not a millionaire. I didn’t have massive capital. So I couldn’t meet the minimum quantity orders of fabric required  by China — I wanted to offer this cardigan in different colors but couldn’t buy the minimum 1,000 yards per color. Instead, I bought smaller rolls of fabric in Los Angeles, even though I knew they still came from China. Then I chose not to produce the 500 minimum order quantity in China because I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to sell them all. To start small, I decided to manufacture in Los Angeles instead. Beautiful work — but way too expensive. The production cost alone was higher than what I could ever charge. I also tried manufacturing with a small workshop in Colombia, where the cost was lower, but once I added the import fees, I was still close to the same pricing wall.

I wanted to do this business exercise, I wanted to understand by experience how to source in the supply chain of cardigans in this case — But it was a deep lesson to me, a lesson in the real value of things, of labor, of materials, of truth behind the price tag.

Then I get stuck with my own ethical values: I haven’t properly marketed these cardigans yet, because I don’t want to manipulate people. I don’t want to use words that make someone feel like they need my cardigans when I know… they probably don’t. So that was my deeper question: How do we create and sell with consciousness? — when we know that the line between desire and manipulation is so thin?

How do we offer beauty, fashion, story, craftsmanship… without falling into the same game of making people feel “less” without it?

Maybe that’s the question we need to be asking more often — as creators, as consumers, as humans.

Because at the end of the day, a bag or a cardigan doesn’t make someone valuable. We give meaning to what we wear — not the other way around. And maybe all this — the US tariffs imposed to China, and the economic war behind it, the luxury exposure, my supply chain experiment — is not just an economic conversation. It’s a spiritual one.

What are we really buying?
What are we really selling?
And what part of us are we trying to complete with it?