Leaves burst into a dizzying array of colors, softly alighting on the ground with each new gust of wind. Rain rivulets stream down a foggy window pane as embers crackle in the enchanting glow of a fireplace. For some, autumn descends in these details, in little drops of joy that stall the impending chill of winter. But for most, fall arrives on one opportune moment in August: the day Starbucks releases the Pumpkin Spice Latte (PSL).
Although the PSL might have once been relegated to young white women, it has persisted as a staple of American culture for over two decades and is now beloved across generations. Pumpkin spice products quickly expanded from coffee—to snacks, to scented candles, to body butter, and to deodorant—to such an extent that it is now the seasonal flavor consumers anticipate most. In just three months each year, pumpkin spice products generate over half a billion dollars in revenue, with demand continuing to rise. We pay an average of 7.4 percent (and up to 161 percent) more for pumpkin spice products compared to non-pumpkin alternatives, yet we are not deterred from purchasing these products. The remarkable popularity of this distinctive blend of spices highlights how our shared zeal for little luxuries has turned into something deeper than a simple craving for seasonal products. As a form of consumption largely insulated from political maneuvering and economic volatility, little luxuries transcend social divisions, uniting us under a shared consumer identity. In today’s increasingly pluralistic society—in which traditional sources of national identity such as religion, ethnicity, or class have become less central—these small indulgences have allowed us to cultivate our individual and social identities through their consumption.
Little luxuries empower us to develop a sense of self through our consumer choices, embodying the ethos of individualism that pervades American society. In the midst of economic uncertainty and societal turmoil, maintaining a feeling of control over our decision-making aids our “long-term emotional regulation.” The psychological stability we derive, in turn, fosters greater self-cohesion. While Millennials and Gen Z are the two generations most likely to partake in the ritual of an autumnal pumpkin spice latte, the tendency to splurge on little luxuries is not new. Recession-driven consumption often trends toward these kinds of products, as cost-prohibitive goods—like a car or a house—feel increasingly unattainable. The philosopher Herbert Marcuse suggested that people “recognise themselves in their commodities,” and in the absence of these larger identity-defining purchases, routinely buying little luxuries can provide a “manageable form of self-expression.” Being a “person who drinks pumpkin spice lattes” becomes an identity anchor we can hold onto, and as we navigate an increasingly unpredictable world, what harm is there in allowing ourselves that comforting indulgence?
Some might contend that these purchases are financially irresponsible—that it would be wiser to save money to eventually buy a car or a house. This reasoning is naive. The median down payment for a home in 2025 is above $50,000; the average price for used cars hovers around $25,000. Abstaining from pumpkin spice would, on average, save $45 a month for Gen Z and $64 a month for Millennials. Neither of these figures is anywhere near high enough for the savings to compound into an amount that would allow us to invest in capital-intensive goods.
Instead of decrying them, we should appreciate how consuming little luxuries has become a prosocial activity that bolsters our sense of communal identity. These goods are mass-produced commercial items, marketed across social strata as seasonal necessities. They are neither exclusive nor hard to come by, and therein lies their appeal. Through their accessibility, little luxuries become a relational element around which broader communities can coalesce. Our consumer habits signal group membership, and as fall breezes in, the wafting aroma of pumpkin spice draws hordes of friends to coffee shops, giddy in anticipation of sipping a whimsical seasonal coffee. They savor its warmth, revel in the nostalgia it elicits, and delight in bonding with others who similarly appreciate the little luxury. As we interact with people who share kindred purchasing habits, the practice of consumption itself becomes a unifying force that bolsters our sense of belonging, while the consumer space becomes a third place in which to cultivate connections. It has been shown that “very socially embedded practices and feelings can be the most powerful of all,” and as pumpkin spice continues to promote a culture of taste, we integrate into both our individual and collective identity, we can only benefit from the social cohesion that arises.
While there are certainly legitimate critiques of consumerism, it is worth examining its aesthetic and moral judgments more closely—judgments that focus on “not how much we consume, but what we consume.” Such critiques frame our penchant for pumpkin spice as a moral defect—an impractical purchase preventing us from engaging in more “upstanding” forms of consumerism. However, such judgment “veers dangerously close, or even into, outright snobbery,” echoing historical “elite disdain” for working-class consumption habits.
If we look beyond these stereotypical views of “little treat culture,” it becomes clear that such indulgences serve an important purpose: They democratize desire beyond mere consumer need, embodying the myth of American equality—a cornerstone of our national identity. No longer are indulgences or a sense of luxury prescribed to the wealthy. Consumers are able to partake in superficial spending on a scale that would not have been possible decades ago, allowing the appeal of little luxuries to straddle socioeconomic strata, captivating most consumers with disposable income. Today, the PSL is available in most coffee shops from September to November and costs an average of $6.50. While one could argue this price point is still extravagant, it is not cost-prohibitive for the average American—who spends over $40 per month on coffee. Given this, a weekly seasonal drink does not seem to be a disproportionate purchase for the average consumer, especially when the PSL fosters a sense of symbolic belonging—a cultural universality that reflects and sustains the American ideal of equal opportunity.
By transcending socioeconomic divisions, consuming little luxuries becomes an identity broad enough to empower our sense of self, bolster our social cohesion, and sustain our cultural horizon of democracy. It is an identity that stems not from any inherent ideological or value-based characteristic, but from our most basic craving for connection and stability. So, if the process of buying little luxuries bolsters these feelings, why deny ourselves that joy? We should instead take comfort in the fact that, despite political contentions, economic uncertainty, and social turmoil, we can continue to turn toward consumerism. And what better way to luxuriate in that reality than with a pumpkin spice latte, sitting back and watching as leaves burst into a dizzying array of colors?