Let’s be honest: we are all products of a capitalist society that has expanded so far, it feels impossible to turn back. And to be clear, I’m not arguing for its opposite—history has shown how badly other systems can fail. But is it unreasonable to ask whether this one has gone too far?

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, especially when considering our National Health Service—an institution that now feels like it’s bursting at the seams. You might wonder what that has to do with capitalism. But look closer.

We are in the middle of a mental health crisis. One in five young people struggle with their mental health, according to NHS data from just a few years ago—and it’s likely worse now. So what happens when they seek help? Often, they are prescribed antidepressants. Sometimes at 14 years old. Fourteen.

Of course, medication can help people. But it raises a difficult question: are we treating the root cause, or just managing the symptoms? Because when a teenager begins relying on medication without understanding why they feel the way they do, what are we really offering them? And when that prescription becomes a monthly cost in adulthood, are we quietly normalising dependence?

It starts to feel less like care, and more like a system stretched too thin to do anything else.

At the heart of it, this isn’t just about healthcare—it’s about a broader lack of care. A system that is supposed to support, guide, and empower us often feels like it does the opposite. Leadership, instead of inspiring confidence, can feel driven by fear, division, and self-interest.

So when did we forget what it means to be human?

Maybe it wasn’t sudden. Maybe it’s been happening for centuries. But somewhere along the way, we learned to prioritise power over people, profit over wellbeing. We destroy the environment that sustains us. We turn against each other. And for what? Greed. Status. Control.

Meanwhile, the pressure to succeed has never been higher. Children spend less time outdoors than prisoners. Let that sink in. Less freedom, less connection, less space to simply exist. And then we wonder why so many people feel anxious, isolated, and depressed.

Support systems are weakening. Communities are fragmenting. And those who suffer most are often the ones with the least access to alternatives—those who can’t afford to go private, who don’t have the resources to escape the strain.

And yet, something as simple as kindness feels rare.

Walk down the street and look around—how many people seem truly at ease? How often do strangers smile at each other? It’s become surprising when they do. But imagine how much could change if we allowed ourselves to care just a little more—for friends, for strangers, for anyone.

So why call this Vending Machine?

Because life can feel like one. You stand there, make your choice, put in your money, press the button—and then wait. Sometimes you get what you hoped for. Sometimes you don’t. Sometimes it gets stuck halfway down, just out of reach (the irony is they are full of consumerist products).

That unpredictability has always been part of life. Systems exist to create order, to help things function—but they are not perfect. And they never will be.

What matters is not letting those systems define your worth.

Not everything that fails to “drop” is your fault. And not everything you’re told to want is something you actually need. You don’t have to look like a celebrity, buy into every trend, or follow every expectation placed on you.

You are not broken. You never were.

So yes—if you want something, go after it. If you want to buy something, enjoy it. Because at the end of the day

you are worth it.

But don’t confuse consumption with identity, or struggle with failure. And don’t let anyone—whether it’s a corporation, a system, or a powerful figure—convince you that you are less than whole.

Because you’re not.

And the next time someone smiles at you on the street, smile back.

It might not fix everything—but it’s a start.

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