The things we keep

I remember my Auntie Mary saying the same thing over and over again.

"Buy cheap, buy twice."

As a child, I thought she was talking about money.

It wasn't until much later that I realised she was talking about something much bigger.

She believed that some things were worth investing in.

Not because they were expensive.

Because they were made to last.

Mary wasn't interested in filling cupboards or wardrobes with more than she needed.

She bought thoughtfully.

She looked after what she owned.

And when she found something she loved, she kept it.

For years she wore the same pair of boots.

They weren't ordinary boots.

They were beautifully eccentric, covered in colourful artwork with dolphins leaping through waves. They looked like something only she could wear, yet somehow they suited her perfectly.

I loved those boots.

I even remember joking that she should leave them to me one day.

Sadly, we weren't the same shoe size.

But that almost feels beside the point now.

Because it wasn't really the boots I wanted.

It was what they represented.

Mary was one of those people who quietly shaped the way I see the world.

She introduced me to Desiderata by Max Ehrmann, a poem that has travelled with me through much of my adult life. One line found its way onto my skin as a tattoo:

"You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here."

Those words have stayed with me.

So has she.

She was fiercely independent.

A feminist long before it felt fashionable to say the word.

She shopped locally whenever she could.

She believed small businesses mattered.

She supported charities quietly, without ever making a fuss about it.

As children, she'd buy us memberships to the Young Ornithologists' Club and encourage us to notice the birds around us. She'd make donations where she could, always believing that looking after the world wasn't somebody else's responsibility.

It was simply part of being a good human.

Looking back now, I realise she was teaching me values.

Not lessons.

Values.

There's a difference.

Lessons are things we're told.

Values are things we absorb by watching somebody live.

When I think about the world today, I sometimes wonder whether we've forgotten that.

We're surrounded by things designed to be replaced.

Clothes.

Furniture.

Children's toys.

Even household appliances.

So much of modern life feels temporary.

Made quickly.

Used briefly.

Thrown away.

I'm only forty-two, so I'm always slightly cautious about becoming the person who says, "Things were better in my day."

But I do think something has changed.

Not everything, of course.

We make incredible things today.

But we also make an awful lot of things that simply aren't built to stay.

Perhaps that's why Mary comes to mind so often.

She didn't chase more.

She chose better.

And then she kept it.

When I started Best Human Beaming, I thought I was creating a clothing brand inspired by a phrase I'd heard years earlier in Hawaii.

"Humans Beaming."

That story is true.

But it isn't the whole story.

Looking back, I think Best Human Beaming also began in my auntie's sitting room.

Over cups of tea.

In long conversations about life.

Watching someone choose quality over quantity without ever needing to explain why.

I realised I didn't want to create clothes that people wore once before moving on to the next trend.

I wanted to create the piece they reached for on Monday morning.

And Tuesday.

And Thursday.

The hoodie that quietly became part of someone's life.

The T-shirt that felt better after its fiftieth wash than it did after its first.

Not because it was fashionable.

Because it had earned its place.

That's why we chose heavyweight organic cotton.

That's why we cared about how it feels against your skin.

That's why we obsessed over quality before we ever thought about quantity.

Not because we wanted to sell more clothing.

Because we hoped people might need to buy less of it.

I sometimes think we've confused value with price.

The cheapest thing isn't always the most affordable.

And the most expensive thing isn't always the best.

Real value is measured differently.

It's measured in years.

In memories.

In familiarity.

In the quiet satisfaction of reaching for something that still feels exactly right.

Mary never met Best Human Beaming.

I often wish she had.

I'd have loved to have seen her pull on one of our hoodies before heading out for a walk.

I'd have loved to know what she thought.

But I have a feeling she'd have understood what we were trying to build.

Not a fashion brand.

A wardrobe of things worth keeping.

Because perhaps she was right all along.

"Buy cheap, buy twice."

It was never really about spending more.

It was about choosing carefully.

Looking after what matters.

And allowing the things we truly love to stay with us for a very long time.