Tariffs and the Price of Illusion; The Long Cost of Being Sold a Dream

There are moments that seem small on the surface, but end up revealing entire belief systems we never questioned. This is a story about a ham sandwich, storage units, framed quotes, and what happens when the mirror finally turns back on us. A story about how we’re taught to want more, perform more, and how that hunger isn’t just financial—it’s emotional, psychological, and deeply human.

I still remember my first sandwich in the United States.

Thick slices of white bread, stacked high with half a pound of ham. I blinked at it for a second, was this meant for a family? It looked like it could feed four people, but it was just for me. I laughed, surprised, and said out loud, “Welcome to America.”

Back in Mexico, we made sandwiches with a single, paper-thin slice of ham, thin enough to see the light pass through it. Maybe a smear of mayonnaise, a couple of tomato slices if we were lucky, and that was it. It was humble, yes, but it was enough. And it felt like a sandwich.

This, though, was excess. A performance. A meal trying to prove a point. I didn’t realize it then, but that sandwich was the first step into a deeper indoctrination, one I didn’t yet have the words for.

Not long after, I moved into a home where two little frames caught my eye. Whimsical, harmless—so they seemed.

One read: “He who dies with the most things, wins.”

Another said: “Queen of Everything.”

At the time, I smiled politely. Everyone did. These were the kinds of sayings you’d find on throw pillows at Target and Walmart or mugs in glossy boutique gift shops. But even then, something in me paused. Something felt off. These weren’t just jokes. They were instructions. They were mantras. And they were everywhere.

What looked like wit was actually wiring, quietly reprogramming our sense of worth, tying it to what we owned, how much we performed, and how we were perceived. Consumerism isn’t just about spending money. It’s about spending yourself. Your attention, your sense of identity, your values.

We’re constantly told to hustle, to grind, to strive for more, always more, but never invited to ask, more of what, and why? We’re surrounded by slogans masquerading as empowerment, but they’re designed to keep us chasing, acquiring, and never fully arriving.

“Girlboss,” “Retail therapy,” “You deserve it,” “Treat yourself.”

Yes, we do deserve joy, comfort, and celebration. But what happens when joy is confused with consumption? When identity becomes a price tag, and self-worth is tied to a label?

We become easy to manipulate. Easy to sell to. Easy to exhaust.

Because the system doesn’t just want our money, it wants our attention, our silence, our agreement to keep playing.

Lately, people are expressing shock over TikToks of people in China exposing how luxury brands like Chanel or Louis Vuitton charge thousands for items that cost less than a fraction on the dollars to make.

But that’s not a revelation, it’s a reflection.

We knew.

We ALL knew this.

I tried to say this for years, tried to get people to see beyond the branding, beyond the hype, beyond the glossy lies. But back then, no one really wanted to hear it. It was easier to laugh at the clever slogans, to celebrate the sale racks, to chase the labels for the dopamine of “owning.”

Now, when the mirror is being held by the very countries we used to villainize—China flipping the script, showing the West its own reflection—we act shocked. Or ashamed. Or outraged... even amused.

But maybe that outrage isn’t about the brands at all. Maybe it’s about seeing ourselves more clearly than we want to.

When I moved to Canada after living in the U.S. for twenty-five years, I had to let go of a lot. I sold what I could. Gave some to charity. Threw some away. What I couldn’t part with, I put in storage in Chicago, telling myself I would bring it up north someday.

It took almost two years before I could reunite with those belongings.

In the meantime, I had to live without the things I thought I needed. My favorite knives. My kitchen gadgets, etc. My comforts. I had to stop myself from buying new things, reminding myself that I already had them. They just weren’t with me. And that’s when I started to understand something deeper.

I made do. I adjusted. I lived with less. And surprisingly, I was.... okay.

Then I remembered what my father used to say: “If you know how to use what you have, you will never need what you don’t have.”

Back then, I laughed it off. I thought he was just being cheap. But now, I get it.

In my own words, I now say: The things we own, end up owning us.

Because once you let go of the illusion of needing more, you begin to reclaim your space.

Your time.

Your energy.

Your self.

What happens when the illusion cracks?

We realize we weren’t just sold handbags or pile high ham sandwiches. We were sold a belief system. One that told us more means better. That owning means being. That buying means belonging.

We didn’t pay for the labor, we paid for the label.

And the cost of that decision was never just financial, it was moral. Because while the stitching may have come from underpaid hands in silence, the branding screamed loud enough to drown that truth out.

We bought more than products, we bought the permission to look away. From the exploitation. From the inequality. From the emotional debt we accumulate in the pursuit of external validation.

But now, the mirror has turned. And it isn’t pretty. Because the price was never the real problem. It was the hypocrisy. The knowing. The silence. The comfort we chose over compassion.

We are not just consumers, we are being consumed.

By a system that doesn’t love us, but knows exactly how to use us.

So now that the truth is finally trending, I’ll ask the same question I’ve been asking myself for years:

Now that you see it, what will you do with what you know?