Love should not be disposable

A reflection on Valentine’s Day, plastic, and how expressions of love can become unintentionally disposable.

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In early February, the city performs a ritual we all recognise. Shop windows turn red almost overnight, hearts replace winter sales, and plastic ribbons curl themselves into shapes that promise something meaningful. For some, the day brings anticipation. For others, a sense of routine. For many, it is simply part of the walk home, a seasonal backdrop that briefly interrupts the ordinary rhythm of the city.

At its core, Valentine’s Day is about love, about care, about choosing someone and letting them know they matter. Yet as we pass by heart-shaped balloons and shiny chocolate boxes, somewhere between the bright lights and the gift bags, a quieter question insists on being asked.

What happens to all of this tomorrow?

Not philosophically. Practically.

We are not against celebration. Joy is not the problem. Expression is not the problem. But when affection is packaged for single use, something subtle shifts.

The day after Valentine’s feels different, not because the city changes its vibe, but because its purpose dissolves. What felt intentional twenty-four hours earlier now feels temporary, as objects lose the emotion they were briefly asked to carry and return to being simply red painted objects.

Plastic does not disappear when the moment ends. It changes context. What was created for visual impact and convenience becomes part of a system of waste that continues long after the celebration itself has faded. This does not happen out of bad intention. It is a habit. It is speed. It is a culture that rewards immediacy and forgetfulness.

When care is designed to be thrown away, value quietly changes.

The pattern is not dramatic, but it lingers around us. Once something is discarded, it leaves our sight but remains present elsewhere, moving through processes of sorting, transport, treatment, or burial that are not linked to the original gesture. The separation between use and consequence allows the moment to feel complete, even when the material’s journey has barely begun.

What begins as a personal expression of affection is absorbed into a cycle of extraction, production, and disposal that extends far beyond sweet moments shared with that special someone. Over time, this shapes how we relate to objects and, perhaps more subtly, how we understand responsibility.

Waste is never only about material. It reflects how we utilize resources, whose labour is involved, and who carries the aftermath once something is no longer useful to us. Choosing not to look at that side does not make it disappear. It simply makes it easier to repeat.

Paying attention, on the other hand, creates coherence. It asks whether the way we express love aligns with the values we wish to practice on the daily. 

At ANKAA, this question is not theoretical. One of our core practices is upcycling and ethical manufacturing, which begins precisely where disposable logic usually ends. We work with materials that already exist, textiles, banners, fabrics, resources that might be considered finished, and we treat them as our starting points.

Upcycling is often framed as a creative trend or aesthetic choice, but for us it is about creating value deliberately. It requires patience, skill, and a willingness to work within constraints rather than replacing them. Each material carries a story so, instead of erasing and ending its journey, we rework it into something functional and lasting through responsible production processes that prioritise durability and transparency.

In our tailoring lab, this philosophy comes to life. It looks like carrying heavy rolls of PVC and banners together across our space, washing each sheet carefully before it can be cut, and placing patterns deliberately to avoid leaving waste behind. It means accepting that no two pieces will ever be identical, and choosing not to hide the “imperfections”.

There is effort in this process. There are decisions. There is collaboration. Love, if it means anything, is also work. It is attention to detail, patience with materials that have already lived a life, and a commitment to creating something durable rather than something seasonal.

This is what we mean when we say that love should not be disposable. Not a slogan. Not a seasonal critique. A way of working that resists the habit of replacing, discarding, and moving on. Slower paces. Thoughtful actions. Objects designed to remain in use rather than disappear after a single moment of visibility. 

Celebration does not need to shrink. Romance does not need to lose its charm. But perhaps it can mature. Perhaps affection can be expressed in ways that linger beyond the performance of the day itself.

The city will move on quickly. The red will fade. Shop windows will reset.

What stays is what we choose to leave behind.

Love should not be disposable.

If this reflection resonated with you and you would like us to continue sharing conversations like this, consider supporting ANKAA’s work through a one-off donation via the link below. Your contribution helps us continue building practices rooted in care, responsibility, and lasting value.