I kept hearing my kids say “Labubu,” so I asked who this character was supposed to be. The name itself, odd, almost like a warped joke, stuck in my head.
My 10-year-old son looked at me a little puzzled. He said calmly, but with clarity:
“It’s a doll that looks kind of scary… but also cute at the same time. It’s like it tries to trick your mind. Because you’re scared of it, but at the same time, you’re drawn to it. Especially since all the kids have one and you see it everywhere.”
His answer stopped me in my tracks. I looked up pictures of this toy.
I realized that in his explanation, my child had voiced a truth that many adults no longer see.
I remembered a trip to Amsterdam with friends. We saw this enormous line, at least 500 meters long, of people standing in the rain, waiting for a store to open. Someone asked what the line was for. The answer was: for the Labubu doll!
I started digging to understand what it was, who created it, and why it became so popular. Its creator is the Hong Kong-born artist Kasing Lung. He grew up in the Netherlands, and now lives in Belgium. Labubu was originally a character from an illustrated book of monsters. A “cute monster,” as it’s often called. Now, it’s a doll that has exploded in popularity online, especially after some celebrities were seen in public with them hanging from their expensive handbags. Kids love it. Adults collect it. Stores proudly display it. And yet, when I look closely at it, something in me tenses up. With sharp teeth, bulging eyes, and an ironic grin that makes it look mischievous, grotesque, this monster-doll is marketed as adorable. It’s a mix of the grotesque and the cuddly, a cuddly toy. It triggers both disgust and fascination.
My son didn’t say he loves it. He didn’t say he wants it. He said it confuses him. That it makes him doubt what he feels. And I knew then, without needing more reasons, that this wasn’t a toy for him. But he also said: “The more I see it, the more I get used to it, and it starts to seem less weird. I’m even starting to like it.”
The internet is full of stories about it. That it’s inspired by the Lazuzu demon. That it’s the devil’s pet. That if you collect enough, the devil might visit you… Digital folklore. Still, I can’t help but wonder why such stories appear around a children’s toy. Maybe, because people no longer have a language to talk about “evil,” but they feel it lurking behind something that seems harmless. Maybe, because, beyond the horror stories, there’s something real yet subtle and much more dangerous: the normalization of evil.
It’s telling that people feel the need to come up with an occult explanation for something that makes them deeply uncomfortable. For some, this doll has something unsettling about it, and the brain seeks meaning. When it can’t find it, it invents one.
Demon or not, the real danger isn’t in some invisible force creeping in at night. Sometimes, danger looks familiar, and even cute. It smiles wide. The danger, for me, is raising healthy kids in a world where the grotesque is packaged as adorable, where discernment is dulled, aesthetic sense is twisted, and instincts are mocked.
What does a doll like Labubu teach my child? That it’s fun to be a little scared. That fear is “all in his head.” That he’s “cool” if he owns something he doesn’t even like, just because it’s popular. To me, that’s not a lesson in courage. It’s emotional confusion. It’s a lesson in doubting your own feelings.
But what if… what if we leave aside all the talk of demons and just ask the simple question:
“What does my child learn from this toy?”
Not from what I say, not from what the creator intended, but from the effect it has on him.
Labubu isn’t just a doll. It’s an idea. A form of aesthetics. A way of teaching kids that fear can be fun, that creepy things can be friendly, that the instinct saying “something feels wrong” should be ignored.
It’s a dangerous lesson: don’t listen to your heart, just follow the trend. Smile and fit in, even if something deep inside you tightens.
This isn’t the first time our culture has wrapped ugliness in pastel colors. I know that. But now, it feels like everything is being aimed at children. And I start to wonder: what happens when we teach kids, from a young age, to call good “bad” and bad “cool”? What happens when the toy that scares them is marketed as “adorable,” and they’re told to smile and hug it?
I chose never to buy this toy. Not because I’m afraid of a legend. But because I trust my child’s voice and my own judgment as a parent. I’m fascinated by his uncorrupted clarity and intuition and how he knows that while the mind can be tricked, something still feels off. And I don’t want him to suppress that voice. I want him to listen to it and trust it.
I don’t want him to be “cool.” I don’t want him to confuse danger with play or make a joke out of it. I want him to be free to say, “I don’t like it,” even when everyone else says, “Oh, how cute!”
So I didn’t laugh. I didn’t mock the design. I didn’t say, “It’s just a doll.” I said: “I’m glad you feel that way. Remember it. When something or someone tries to trick your mind, also listen to what your heart says.”
Because later in life, there will be people who smile like that.
People who seem nice but unsettle your soul.
And I hope, when that happens, he’ll know how to tell the difference and trust his instinct.
For me, this doll was never about trends or money.
It was a moment of choosing between confusion and clarity.
Between the trend and inner truth.
Between the noise of the world and the quiet certainty of a heart that still knows what is right.
What do you think?