When I think about why I started collecting, monetary value isn’t the first thing that comes to mind. It’s the feeling. I think back to being a kid, opening packs with family members – sometimes just one, sometimes a whole box – to discover what was hiding inside. I remember getting lost in the the rainbow foil, the holographics, the shiny finish, and that sense that even the simplest pull could feel special. Back then, cards weren’t meaningful just because they could be flipped for the price of a car or a house. They mattered because they felt like treasures.
Some of my earliest memories of collecting had nothing to do with strategy. They had everything to do with wonder. I remember coming across packs of baseball cards at gas stations and being drawn to them before I even cared about the sport. I remember getting Star Wars and Pokémon cards and being completely locked in to the characters, the colors, the distinct smell of the cellophane, the texture of the cardstock. It felt like it carried something beyond the cardboard. That was the real value. Not rarity or perceived value. But connection.
Over time, like so many collectors, I was pulled into a different version of the hobby. Nostalgia brought me back during the pandemic, but what I returned to wasn’t the same environment I left as a kid. The conversation had shifted. The stakes felt higher. The noise was constant and overwhelming. Influencers, comps, hype, and endless stories of cards turning into financial wins made it easy to believe that cardboard could change your life. And to be fair, sometimes it did. Sure, I resold cards. I made some decent money. But somewhere along the way, I lost sight of why I started collecting in the first place.
The hobby became less about appreciation and more about outcome. Less about the card itself and more about what it could do for me. I found myself buying packs and boxes hoping for the hit – the autograph, the low-numbered parallel, the exclusive short print – something that could justify the cost or turn a quick profit. And once that mindset took over, the art of collecting started to lose its shape. I stopped asking what I actually loved and I started asking what might pay off.
That drift can be subtle. You can still tell yourself you’re collecting while your behavior starts to look more like chasing. You can convince yourself the activity is harmless while your money, your focus, and your relationship with collecting begin to dwindle. I’ve had to be honest about that in my own life. I’ve made mistakes. I’ve gotten caught up in the market. I’ve bought into ideas that pulled me further away from what actually mattered. But honesty and accountability have a way of bringing things back into focus.
The reality is, the majority of us didn’t start collecting to spend all day tracking and calculating comps. We started because something about the experience felt exciting, comforting, or personal. Maybe it was hunting your favorite player or character. Maybe it was the satisfaction that came with completing a set. Maybe it was just holding something in your hands that connected you to a moment or a version of yourself you still care about. That’s the part worth protecting.
The modern hobby has made it increasingly difficult to return to that place. We’ve seen greed, scams, theft, manipulation, deceit, with people treating others like opportunities instead of fellow collectors. We’ve seen community get replaced by competition, and nostalgia get packaged and sold as commercial assets. But none of that means the heart of collecting is necessarily gone. It just means we have to be more intentional about how we show up.
For me, that’s what this comes back to. Not perfection. Not pretending I’ve always gotten it right. But rather, perspective. A reminder that a card doesn’t need a high price tag to matter. A reminder that collecting doesn’t have to become financial self-destruction to feel exciting. A reminder that being a good collector also means being a decent person. Be fair. Be honest. Be reasonable. Don’t build your wins on someone else’s confusion or lack of knowledge. And if you’ve lost sight of why you started collecting, maybe that’s your sign to slow down and find it again.
Nostalgia is powerful, but only if it leads somewhere meaningful. Not back into fantasy, and not deeper into compulsion, but toward the part of collecting that felt real in the first place. The cardstock still matters. The memories matter even more. And for a lot of us, that’s the only reason we ever needed to collect.
#CollectorsMD
Collecting takes on a different shape when we stop chasing return and start reconnecting with what made it meaningful in the first place.
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