Gigi On Earth

Over the past year, I’ve found myself thinking a lot about consumption—how we spend our time, our money, and what that says about our society. Not all consumption is created equal. On one end, we have the everyday necessities: dish soap, toothpaste, tissues. Then there’s the other side—what I’d call excess consumption. The stuff we don’t really need but are convinced we want.

To fuel this desire, companies have long embraced a concept we now know all too well: planned obsolescence. It showed up glaringly in the world of fast fashion over a decade ago. Some textile companies even built their business models around garments designed to survive just ten washes. Ten. That’s not a flaw—that’s the plan.

And we see the same story play out with electronics. With a new iPhone hitting the shelves every year, we’re subtly (or not-so-subtly) nudged into replacing perfectly functional devices just to keep up.

I used to think fashion was the outlier—the most egregious example of environmental and human exploitation. But the more I learn, the more I realize that any product tied to constant consumption is likely entangled in unethical supply chains, all in the name of keeping costs low and profits high.

This realization hit especially hard while reading Cobalt Red by Siddharth Kara, which dives into the harrowing reality of cobalt mining in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Cobalt is a key ingredient in lithium-ion batteries—the kind found in electric vehicles, smartphones, and countless other gadgets we rely on. These mines often rely on unsafe work conditions, child labor, and poverty wages.

So while we champion electric vehicles as a cleaner alternative to gas-powered cars, we can’t ignore the dark underbelly of that transition. Personally, it’s reinforced my belief that the future of sustainable transportation isn’t individual electric vehicles—it’s investing in public transit systems. Electric trams, subways, and trains that run on overhead cables can reduce emissions without fueling exploitative mining practices.

Over the past year, consumption has taken on a deeply political meaning for me. As opportunities for civic engagement shrink—fewer community spaces, fewer chances to connect with local leaders—it feels like the only “vote” I have left is how I choose to spend my money. And while that doesn’t feel like enough, it’s something.

I also think that the void left by disappearing community spaces leads many people to shop more. Consumption can be a response to loneliness, boredom, and disconnection. If we want to build better, more livable cities, we need to rebuild our sense of community too. But that’s a topic for another day… inspired, of course, by another book.

Are you sensing a theme here?