There’s something oddly comforting about a cluttered shelf.
Maybe it’s a row of Polaroids tucked into the corner of a mirror, a collection of random keychains hanging from a backpack or a box filled with ticket stubs, bracelets and things that don’t really serve a purpose anymore but still feel impossible to throw away. To anyone else, it might look like junk. To us, it’s a timeline.
Over the past decade, collecting has become a defining habit of our generation. From the VSCO girl era of seashells and scrunchies in 2016 to today’s personalized yet widespread displays of trinkets, photo walls and junk journaling, the act of collecting has stuck with us. It’s how we document our lives without even realizing it.
What makes these collections so interesting is that they aren’t always expensive, curated or even aesthetically pleasing. Sometimes they’re random and borderline meaningless to anyone else, which oftentimes is the entire appeal. The objects themselves aren’t something out of the ordinary, but the way they are collected uniquely by individuals make them special. In a world where everything is increasingly digital and temporary, collecting physical objects gives us something we can hold onto.
That’s why it never really went away.Because collecting isn’t just about the objects themselves. It’s about memory, identity and control. It’s about choosing what matters to you and deciding that it’s worth keeping, even if no one else understands why.
For our generation, this started early, from Pokémon cards traded at lunch tables, carefully sorted into binders or rows of Shopkins lined up on bedroom floors. The goal was to complete something, to organize it and to make it yours. Even then, collecting was tied to excitement and a sense of ownership.
That same instinct shows up now in different forms. The recent popularity of Sonny Angels, Smiskis and their unboxing, taps into something psychological that has always been there. The blind box format adds anticipation and unpredictability. You do not know what you are going to get, but you still choose to participate and hope for a specific outcome.
Psychologically, collecting works as a kind of external memory system. Instead of relying on our minds, which forget, distort and move on, we attach meaning to objects so the moment feels preserved. A movie ticket is not just paper. It carries who you were with, what you felt like that night and what phase of your life you were in. A Sonny Angel on your shelf might remind you of a random afternoon with friends, or a version of yourself that you are still becoming.
At the same time, collecting forms identity in a way that social media alone cannot. Modern identity is filtered, edited and constantly reshaped for an audience. But a personal collection, especially one that is not meant to be posted and consists of something you just like, is more honest. It reflects patterns you did not consciously design, what you gravitate toward, what you refuse to get rid of and what you keep returning to. Over time, those patterns matter.
That is why the shift from aesthetic-driven collections to more chaotic, hyper-personal ones matters. Early trends in the late 2010s emphasized uniformity, like color-coordinated rooms, minimalism and clean visuals. Now, collections feel more layered and less concerned with perfection. A shelf might hold a designer perfume next to a childhood toy, a thrifted ring next to something passed down from family, a Smiski tucked into a corner next to a stack of old concert tickets. Collecting “things” allows you to turn small things into something larger.
We keep things because we are trying to understand ourselves in real time. Sometimes, the easiest way to do that is not through a caption or a post, but through a pile of objects that somehow end up meaning everything.
