The Quiet Rebellion of Repair

Photo @riho_k

There’s something deeply satisfying about fixing a thing that was broken. Not replacing it. Not upgrading it. Not tossing it into the abyss of the landfill and clicking "Buy Again." But sitting with it, inspecting the damage, understanding how it broke and why, and then doing the work of bringing it back.

It’s satisfying. And a quiet kind of rebellion.

In a world that tells us everything is disposable—our clothes, our furniture, our tech, even our relationships—the act of repair feels almost subversive. To repair something is to believe that it still has value. That it is worth the time, the effort, the care. It’s to whisper into the wind in a world screaming for novelty, "I still see you. I still choose you.”

My daughter recently learned how to sew. She wanted to stitch a ripped seam on her favourite pair of pants instead of donating them. She was visibly empowered by her new ability to fix them. It felt oddly emotional. She wasn’t just patching the fabric; she was refusing a narrative that says, "just get rid of them and buy something new. Something better!" Because we're made to believe from birth that new is always better. But maybe there is no "better" than something familiar, something that already knows your shape. Maybe the better thing is the one that’s been with you for a while, and could keep being with you, if only you let it.

I think of a chipped mug I glued back together instead of replacing. It’s not perfect now, but it was never supposed to be. It just needed a little help. A little glue. A little grace.

We don’t talk enough about grace in the context of things. Or people.

Repair demands intimacy. You have to really look at something. You have to be willing to see the break. Not ignore it, not gloss over it, not toss it and pretend it never mattered. But to care enough to sit with the mess without flinching. To care enough to try.

And that kind of care changes you. It reminds you of the invisible thread that ties you to your belongings and all the people behind them, to the world around you, to the things and places and people that you love. Because, of course, the same logic applies to more than just buttons and mugs.

How many people, I wonder, have been discarded for being too much or maybe for being not enough? For cracking under pressure? For showing signs of wear? Obviously, this doesn't apply to abusive relationships, but to all those little possibilities we let slip away because of some checkbox or other not being checked. 

We ghost each other now instead of talking. We move on instead of mending. We chase the new, the exciting, the pristine, and we pretend that effort isn’t love. That caring isn’t sacred. That repair isn’t revolutionary. 

But it is. It is.

When I look at something I’ve repaired, I don’t see damage. I see dedication. I see care, time, a refusal to give up. I see a belief in what still could be.

There’s a Japanese art called kintsugi—maybe you’ve heard of it—where broken pottery is repaired with gold. The idea is not to hide the cracks, but to illuminate them. To make the repaired object more beautiful because it has been broken. Because it has been made whole again.

We need more kintsugi in our lives. More golden seams. More signs that we tried. That we believed in what was, and in what still might be.

I think, more than anything, that’s the kind of life I want to cultivate for myself. One made of good-quality things that last, used well and cared for over time. One filled with people who know how to stay, to mend, to make the effort. One where nothing and no one is perfect, but everything is valued.

And when I forget, when I get tired, when I’m tempted by shiny new things, I hope I remember that chipped mug on my shelf. Still holding warmth. Still holding stories. Still precious.