Labubus: The Mascot of Overconsumption

The surge of emotional support plushes and cotton-stuffed dolls is not recent, as we have already observed with Jelly-cats around two years ago, or Tamagotchis for the millennial generation. As a society, we seem intrigued, perhaps even obsessed, with the idea of clinging to something non-human, which could be viewed as unsettling by many. However, a study conducted by Montalbo (2023) found that students often use these toys as a source of comfort, helping them regulate emotions and cope with difficult situations. And the receipts back it up, as numerous psychological studies suggest that stuffed animals, or “plushes,” function as transitional objects, providing emotional security across different stages of life.

Let’s be honest though: A single Jellycat runs anywhere from $30 to $70, and resale markets push rare ones into the triple digits. Limited drops, TikTok-fueled trends, and Instagram-worthy aesthetics all drive the same cycle: scarcity, desire, purchase, repeat. What looks like comfort is, in reality, consumption with a coquette bow on it.

Image Source: Pinterest

Gen-Z to be more specific, is fluent in this language. We love to rationalize our purchases with buzzwords like ‘I’m just a girl’, or ‘Self-care ritual’. And yes, we’ll swipe our cards because a plushie that matches our emotional aura feels like a necessity in the moment. It’s retail therapy in its cutest, most socially acceptable form.

Let’s address the whole Labubu phenomenon itself. Honestly? It’s not serving ‘timeless chic’. With its lopsided grin and blob-shaped body, it feels less like a plushie and more like a fever-dream mascot someone rushed to meet a TikTok deadline. Personally, the fascination with an object that goes far off the tangent from conventional aesthetics and Pinterest boards is what had me write this article in the first place. What is drawing masses towards this cotton-stuffed oddball with a permanently dazed expression?

The answer lies less in the plush itself and more in what it represents: the financial mechanics of virality. Labubus represent a masterclass in scarcity marketing. It doesn’t have to be pretty; it needs to be talked about. Everywhere. I have seen these miniature mascots of capitalism dangle on every third person’s bag, along with every reel and TikTok on my feed overdosing on their analysis.

The uglier, or quirkier it looks, the more screenshots it earns, and the faster it climbs the TikTok algorithm. That buzz translates into perceived exclusivity, which flips a switch in our brains: if everyone’s posting about it, I need one too. Suddenly, $60 feels “reasonable” for a plush that, if it weren’t trending, would collect dust on a discount rack.

This is how overconsumption works in the era of Gen-Z spending. Purchases aren’t functional anymore: they are identity investments. Labubus become less of a plush and more of a financial flex: proof you’re in on the culture, even if it means spending money on something objectively impractical. It’s the same logic that fuels limited sneaker drops or Stanley cups: we don’t buy because we need, we buy because we can’t stand being left out.

At the end of the day, Labubus are more than just an oddly shaped plush: they are a case study diving into how consumer trends play us. The plush itself doesn’t offer comfort, stability, or aesthetic value beyond what we project onto it. What it does offer is a glimpse into how easily we rationalize swiping our cards for the sake of belonging. So before you hit add to cart on the next viral “comfort” object, ask yourself: am I buying this for myself, or am I buying this for the algorithm? Your wallet (and maybe your shelf space) will thank you.