The circularity illusion: We’re fixing the wrong end of the system

In the circularity debate, there's one inconvenient truth we rarely address: we're starting way too far down the pyramid.

Everyone loves to talk about reuse and recycling. These are visible, tangible, and often marketable acts. But they happen far too late. By the time we get to reusing or recycling, the damage has already been done. Resources have been extracted, goods produced, emissions released, labor used, and logistics activated. And much of it ends up as waste anyway.

If we want to make a real dent in sustainability, we have to go upstream. We have to prevent waste from entering the system in the first place.

The waste hierarchy is often visualized as a pyramid. At the top sits prevention—the most desirable action. As you move down, you find reuse, then recycling, followed by energy recovery, and finally disposal—the least desirable. Yet most circularity discussions jump straight to the middle or bottom. We rarely focus on prevention, even though it has the highest potential impact.

This was the whole point of Tørn: to catch surplus and deadstock before it became waste. Perfectly good building materials were ending up in landfills or in forgotten warehouses. Not because they were damaged or unusable, but simply because they weren’t sold on time. Tørn created a system where those goods could still find buyers, reducing waste and creating value.

But here’s the challenge: most circularity solutions are set up to compete with cheap, linear alternatives. And that’s a battle most won’t win.

The problem with reuse

Take fashion. People feel virtuous for buying second-hand. But the same people also continue to buy new clothes at a furious pace. They buy, wear, resell or donate. Then repeat. Consumption hasn’t slowed down. It’s just diversified.

The core issue isn’t whether an item is reused or recycled. The issue is how much is being produced and consumed in the first place.

A few decades ago, most people didn’t own some hundred pieces of clothing. Prices were higher, availability was limited, and people bought less—not because they were more moral or aware, but because they had fewer choices and things simply cost more.

Today, Norwegian women in their twenties are estimated to own over 400 clothing items on average. This reflects a dramatic shift in consumption patterns. With fast fashion, low prices, and constant trends, it’s become normal to accumulate far more than we need.

Now, after years of globalization, offshoring, and low-cost design, we're addicted to cheapness. And the habit is destructive.

We need to make things more expensive. That may sound harsh, but it’s the only lever that consistently works. When things cost more, we think more. We buy less. We use longer. We share more.

When renovation becomes overconsumption

The same pattern is visible in the building sector. Renovation has become a cultural norm, often driven by changing tastes rather than real need. A few decades ago, people didn’t renovate kitchens and bathrooms every ten years. They didn’t replace windows and tiles because of trends. Renovations were rare, practical, and done with longevity in mind.

Today, the pace and frequency of home upgrades resemble the fast fashion cycle—cosmetic, costly, and carbon-heavy. While energy efficiency upgrades make sense, much of what happens in the renovation space is simply aesthetic overconsumption.

This raises a critical question: Can we use tax and policy incentives to shift behavior? Could stricter depreciation rules, renovation taxes, or sustainability-linked property rebates slow the cycle and reward true longevity? If we’re serious about sustainability, we need to address not just what is being thrown away—but why we’re replacing so much to begin with.

The false hope of upcycling

I see well-meaning startups trying to create beautiful products from waste. Repurposed furniture, recycled textiles, reclaimed materials. The intent is noble. But in a world flooded with cheap new alternatives, how many consumers will pay more for something made from yesterday's waste?

It’s not that these ideas are wrong. But we’re trying to retrofit a broken model with beautiful patches.

And here lies a deeper issue: it is incredibly difficult to change consumer habits unless it affects their basic hierarchy of needs. Most recycled or circular products are more expensive, harder to find, and serve the same functional purpose as their cheaper, linear counterparts. For the majority, this doesn’t make sense. The adoption stays limited to the most idealistic consumers or early innovators.

Mass behavior doesn’t shift through ideals alone—it shifts when there’s financial, social, or regulatory incentive. Until circular choices become the easiest, most affordable, or most visible path, they will remain marginal.

We must go upstream

If we want circularity to be more than a buzzword, we need to stop glorifying downstream fixes and start tackling upstream decisions. That means designing for durability. Pricing in impact. Valuing scarcity. And, most of all, producing far less to begin with.

Because no matter how elegant the reuse model, nothing beats not needing it in the first place.