Everything’s a Subscription—Including My Sanity

I tried to buy eye drops and joined a cult.

Remember when you could simply … own things? You walked into a store, handed over money, and left with an item that expected nothing from you. No log in, no QR code, no follow-up email asking how you’re adjusting to life with your new vacuum. You made the purchase and that was the entire relationship.

Cut to 2026: If you try to keep anything for more than a billing cycle, a chip inside it reports you for emotional negligence.

I bought a box of eye drops and somehow ended up with a “refill plan,” rewards program, and a monthly newsletter. I didn’t even say yes. I glanced at the QR code and was suddenly getting emails that assumed I had an ocular obsession and not only a need to hydrate my eyeballs.

The most basic forms of survival have become quietly monetized with a drip-drip-drip of charges so small you don’t notice until your credit card statement resembles a ransom note.

And by that point, it’s often too late.

When Self-Care Became a Recurring Charge

Self-care used to mean taking a bath and locking the door so your family would assume you’d moved to Portugal. Now it’s an entire economy. At some point, possibly around the time when passwords started to outnumber my shoes, everything became a “service.” You’re pressured to “subscribe and save” so often you actually lose your mind.

Shampoo, vacuum filters, collagen, deodorant—even my calm has a free trial. I opened a meditation app hoping for a few minutes of serenity and accidentally enrolled in a “Mindfulness Journey.” I wasn’t prepared to go on a journey.

I’m barely prepared to go to Target.

Then it hit me with a subscription screen so I could put my rapidly vanishing inner peace on a billing cycle. For just $14/month, I can ascend to the “Calm Pro” tier, which includes bonus breathing and different mantra options, none of which include “I’m just a woman who would like to not scream today.”

Which honestly, I might pay extra for.

I Only Want to Make Toast

Even the inanimate objects in my house are hopping on the subscription train. I recently tried to buy a new toaster and was immediately forced to pledge loyalty, because apparently a toaster doesn’t simply make toast anymore. Now it wants my email, my preferences, my credit card, permission to text me at 2 a.m. about “New Exciting Features,” and to track my browning habits in the cloud.

The same thing happened when replacing my microwave. The manual instructed me to scan a QR code, which led to a “membership page” and the option to pay extra each month for “Premium Features.” Then it asked if I’d like to “review my heating experience.”

No, I would not.

I heated soup, I’m not writing a memoir.

The Psychological CrossFit of Cancellation

But the real toll it takes isn’t the money, it’s the management and emotional exhaustion. We’re already out here running households, jobs, families, bodies, friendships, and the occasional fantasy of escaping society and living in a yurt. The whole system is designed to wear you down until you keep paying simply because canceling feels harder than staying trapped.

Because “Cancel anytime!” is the greatest lie since “Your call is important to us.”

First, you have to find the tiny “manage account” link, hidden inside a maze of promotional promises and legal jargon. Then you have to log in, which requires guessing which three security questions you answered in a moment of chaotic energy. (Favorite food? I panicked and wrote “fork.”)

Once inside the cancellation labyrinth, you must complete several emotional trials that end with you explaining to a chatbot named Harmony that no, you wouldn’t like to “reflect on your decision” to subscribe for dishwasher tablets.

I’m not co-signing on a mortgage or deciding to get bangs.

I think I’ll survive the consequences.

Sanity Is Not a Service

There is an upside: At least we know it’s all ridiculous. We grew up in a world where you could buy a bra without committing to a yearly renewal plan. We knew self-care before it required two-factor authentication.

So maybe the answer isn’t unsubscribing from everything (though if anyone invents a one-click “unsubscribe from society” button, I’ll preorder). Maybe it’s simply noticing absurdity and laughing when your laundry soap invites you to join its community.

We can power through bureaucratic nonsense, call customer service with terrifying clarity, and walk into a store knowing exactly what we want because we’ve done our homework.

Because if everything truly is a subscription now, then the least I can do is choose what no longer gets access to me.

Starting with emails from my toaster.