Column: Why recycling my LEGO boxes has made me a happier person

For whoever needs to hear it: recycle your LEGO boxes. Recycle your LEGO instructions. It’s going to make you a happier person.

Once upon a time, I had a garage piled high with empty LEGO boxes. Then I moved to a house without a garage and rented a storage unit for them instead. (With some actual LEGO in there too, to be fair.) Why? Because I was a victim of the collector’s mindset. I’m collecting these sets; their bricks, their minifigures, their instructions and even their boxes.

Throwing any one piece of that puzzle away was tantamount to sacrilege – not least because, one day, I might want to sell them. In effect, I was treating LEGO like a commodity. And in hindsight, that was a poisonous mindset to be in – so I’ve since shifted my outlook on LEGO. I’ve recycled every single empty LEGO box in my possession. I do the same as soon as I crack the seals on a new set. And it’s made me a happier person.

The line between that action and reaction is simple: I’ve disassociated collecting LEGO from capitalism. Back when I was hoarding boxes and instructions, I placed an intrinsic value on each and every one of my LEGO sets, and reasoned that all that associated paraphernalia would surely add value when the time came to sell up. Emphasis on when.

But there’s only so long you can kid yourself you’re going to sell your LEGO without actually selling any LEGO, and so ‘when’ became ‘if’, and ‘if’ eventually became ‘hypothetically speaking, were I ever to sell’, which is a long-winded way of saying ‘I’m never selling this LEGO, am I?’

The tipping point was renting that storage unit, and effectively paying to own LEGO I’ve already paid for. And it was then that I realised I’d been approaching this hobby all wrong.

I don’t buy games consoles, clothes, board games, technology or whatever else while thinking, “One day I’ll be able to get my money back for this.” Why should I? To achieve a 100% return on any product implies that my own enjoyment has had no part in the transaction. I’m buying that PS5 game to play it and enjoy it, and then maybe I’ll sell it on for half the price once I’m done, but I’ve got £30 of value out of it, so fair enough.

So it is with LEGO. I’ve built that copy of 76139 1989 Batmobile, and if I choose to sell it now – with box, instructions and so on – I could probably recoup at least what I paid. If I ditch the box and instructions? Probably less. Maybe it will have cost me £30 to build and admire on my shelf for two years. Fair enough.

In essence, I’ve stopped treating LEGO like a commodity. And it’s made me way happier – not just in removing myself of endless clutter through LEGO boxes and instructions, but in my day-to-day experience of building and enjoying the hobby, too.

I’m not bothered if a guest comes round, fawns over 71043 Hogwarts Castle on display, knocks a piece off and somehow loses it forever. I’m not bothered if one of my cats makes a beeline for a brand new box of LEGO and tears the packaging to shreds. I’m not bothered if I spill whisky on my instructions (okay, that’s a waste of whisky, so maybe ignore that one), or accidentally tear a page. These things happen – they’ve genuinely all happened to me – but where once I might have been incredibly anal about them, I just don’t care anymore.

It's such a relief, and it all started with getting rid of my boxes. The instructions followed not long after – they take up even more space to an extent, and they’re all available online anyway. (I don’t remember the last time I actually fished out a physical manual, rather than turning to LEGO.com or, now, BrickSearch.) That shift in mindset has effectively released me from being too precious about anything in my life, whether LEGO or otherwise, because I’m no longer treating things like commodities.

I’ve placed my own enjoyment back into the value equation, and it’s liberating. Many of you probably already take this approach to LEGO, but if you don’t, you should genuinely give it a go. Recycle that box. Wave goodbye to those instructions. Mix up your minifigures, let your friends and family play with them, dismantle your models and get creative. (That’s kind of the point.)

In essence: free yourself from the shackles of late-stage capitalism and just enjoy LEGO again. Making an extra £30 a decade and a half from now isn’t going to be worth it.

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