What you believe, you receive.
It sounds simple. It isn't. Because believing you are worthy of more — worthy of the price, worthy of the customer, worthy of the life you are building — is the hardest work you will ever do. Harder than the sourcing. Harder than the listing. Harder than lifting crates in a narrow space until your back reminds you for days afterward.
We are defined by our beliefs. And for a long time, my beliefs were working against me.
This is what I'd tell anyone starting out. And if I'm honest — it's what I needed to hear long before I was ready to listen.
The Tax
There is a tax that every seller pays. It doesn't appear on any invoice. It doesn't show up in your courier costs or your auction fees. But you pay it anyway — usually in the form of a sinking feeling in your stomach, a listing you can't take back, and a very uncomfortable conversation with your sweetheart.
I've paid that tax. More than once. And I wouldn't trade a single rand of it. In fact, I am deeply grateful for every one of those lessons — because they allowed me to become who I am meant to be. Or perhaps, who I always was. I just needed reminding.
The Finger Error
It happened fast. One moment I was listing a beautiful set — eight pieces of Elesva Dutch Delftware, ceramic handles painted with the classic blue windmill motif, salt and pepper shakers included, the kind of complete set that makes a collector's heart sing. The next moment, it was live.
At R120.
I meant R1,200. But the finger slipped, the listing went live, and before I could blink — it was gone. Snatched up in seconds by someone who absolutely knew exactly what they had just found.
I closed the laptop quietly. I said nothing. I took a deep breath, and I owned it.
I knew immediately it was wrong. But I am my word. I honoured the sale — no complaints, no message to the buyer explaining the mistake, no attempt to unwind it. I did what a professional seller does: I packed it beautifully, shipped it promptly, and I learned.
My sweetheart had spent the better part of a Wednesday at the auction with me. We both buy for ourselves — he sources what he sells, I source what I believe I can sell, and sometimes he wins a job lot for one or two items and generously passes the rest my way. It is a system built on shared obsession and very different markets.
And then he said it: "You cannot sell stuff cheap. You do not know what you are doing. Do you think we stand for free at that auction all day to give things away?"
He wasn't wrong. Not even a little bit.
What I Didn't Know When I Started Out
The fearful self was afraid. Afraid the piece wouldn't sell. Afraid the price was too high. Afraid that nobody would see the value the way she did. So she priced for the doubter in her head instead of the collector on the other end.
Here is the hard truth that nobody tells you when you start: the buyer who wants things cheap is, more often than not, simply not your customer. A buyer who haggles aggressively, who questions every price, who asks you to justify the value of what you've sourced, researched, cleaned, photographed, described, and shipped with care — that buyer is telling you something important. Not about your prices. About the mismatch.
You do not walk into a fine retailer and demand fifty percent off. You do not tell a jeweller their craftsmanship is overpriced. The moment someone attempts that with you, understand clearly: it says far more about them than it ever will about you or your work.
Price for the collector. Every time.
Because this is what happens when you don't:
The JMI No.4 oval cast iron roaster went for R550. It was worth R2,500. The Sinus 172 puzzle lamp by Poul Christiansen, a genuine piece of Danish design history, went for R650 — internationally, they fetch the equivalent of R3,000 and up. And then there was the Bitossi planter — a substantial, beautiful piece that I listed for R700 before I knew what Bitossi was or understood its legacy. That buyer smiled all the way home. I'm certain of it.
Every single one of those pieces sold immediately. Which tells you everything.
When something sells the instant you post it, one of two things happened: you priced it perfectly, or you left money on the table. In those early days, it was almost always the second one.
What Changed
Honestly? I started valuing and honouring myself and my time.
Research. Patience. And the uncomfortable truth that the pieces were worth more than I was asking.
I started investigating every piece before I priced it. Not after. The maker's mark, the era, the pattern name, the factory, the secondary market value. I built the "Did You Know" section on every listing not just for the buyer — but also for me, to help me grow and understand the true value of what I was actually holding in my hands.
And slowly, the prices stopped being apologies. They became statements.
This Week — Because It's Always a Journey
I sell to collectors, not thrifters. And I say that with the deepest respect for thrifting — honestly, if you want items at bargain prices, I encourage you to thrift. It is how we support the self-employed, put money back into the economy, and sustain the people who work for themselves to build something of their own.
But when you buy from me, you are not thrifting. You are saying: thank you for doing all the groundwork. Thank you for searching markets and auctions for perfect, long-forgotten finds. Thank you for being part of what makes my house a home.
This week reminded me exactly why that distinction matters.
My storage space is stacked with crates — hundreds of them, floor to ceiling, in a narrow space that demands you think carefully about how you move. Every search means lifting, turning, shifting, restacking — and this week the aches that followed were the kind that remind you to build smarter systems.
On Saturday, I found a 100-year-old butter crock at the market. It sat for five hours before I bought it — five hours of foot traffic, browsers, collectors, and dealers — and that crock was overlooked by all of them. Crocks are farmhouse love for me — a past-life attraction I can't explain and won't try to.
The vendor wasn't at her stand when I found it, but the seller across from her — someone I've bought from many times — stepped in, got a price, and held it aside while I kept searching. No fuss. Just trust, built slowly. I genuinely love the network of people I support, and who support me in return.
And then there was the dungaree. I bought it in December when it was hot, packed it into a crate — not only for safekeeping, but because I used it that day to cushion the glass I'd bought. The pants were protecting the treasure. This is, honestly, the most accurate summary of my life I can offer. This week I finally unpacked that crate, washed it, and put it on. The joy of realising not only that it fits, but that it compliments — that is priceless.
The hustle provides. Even when you weren't looking.
On Fridays, I collect my younger granddaughter — she is three — and bring her to visit her eight-year-old sister, who lives with us. I can do this because I work for myself. That means Fridays belong to them. She runs. She swings. She eats cherry tomatoes by the handful, and when asked if she likes them, her response is a very considered "Hmm. Good, Ouma." After school, the elder one arrives, and then the laughter happens non-stop — tag, hiding behind Oupa for protection, trying to ride a bicycle two sizes too big, both of them on the swing at the same time.
The employed version of me had to be politically careful, accept poor systems, and work weekends. There was very little family time. That version of me could not be there for the swing. For the joy of spending time with children without feeling rushed. For sitting in the sun on a weekday, enjoying muddy hands and joyous screams of laughter.
Then, to close the week, a large dome broke in transit. R700 gone, just like that. But how we navigate that moment differs. I choose a courier that refunds losses when you can prove secure packing — so technically the loss was just a delay in payment for me. For my customer, she never had to worry for a single moment. I refunded her immediately, and because my stock is comprehensive (only around forty percent of what I hold is listed at any one time), I was able to find her another dome to send.
And then came the quiet recognition that makes it all worth it.
A fellow seller told me she'd read last week's post and loved it. "I could hear you speak," she said. A vendor's husband, known in the trade for years, told my sweetheart: "Your missus knows her stuff. Her shop is next level." And on Sunday at the car boot, an amazing seller laughed as she handed over the package for items I'd bought from her. Looking at her son, she said: "I go green when I see what she sells my stuff for." We both laughed. I told her: you don't go green — you go inspired. She smiled. "That's true. Knowing how hard I work and seeing all the effort you put in, I believe your prices are worth it. I love watching your new listings."
For me, there is so much more value in lifting others up than in knocking them down. The earlier version of me would not have believed she was worthy, or inspirational. She certainly would not have believed she could hone this skill so quickly — simply by showing up for herself.
Twenty-Four Months Later
Now the look I receive from my sweetheart is different. He looked at me across the table recently — the same man who delivered the auction-day accountability speech — and said: "I honestly don't know how you do this. You have done remarkable and I am so proud of you."
900 plus sales across three different platforms. Five-star ratings, and a website I built myself. A blog my mother-in-law in Bulgaria wants to read in her own language. Customers who drove from Pretoria and left spending more than they planned.
The cheaper self got it wrong sometimes. But she showed up. She learned. She stayed. And that, it turns out, was always going to be enough.
If I could choose one song to sum up how I feel, it would be exactly this: I Work for Myself — Affirmation Club, 2026.
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If you want to follow the real story — the finds, the chaos, the process, and the pieces — subscribe to the Curator’s Vault newsletter. Every Thursday, straight to your inbox: new arrivals, this week’s Vault theme, and the occasional behind-the-scenes moment just like this one.
— Ina Lubbe, Purveyor of Vintage Treasure
Shift2ThriftVintage • Est. 2024 • Curated Vintage, South Africa • shift2thriftvintage.co.za
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