The Stone That Toppled The Giant

Watching Sears fade into obscurity feels less like seeing a store close and more like witnessing the death of an era. It’s not just a shuttered storefront or another casualty of late-stage capitalism—it’s a marker of change, of how fleeting even the mightiest can be. Sears wasn’t just a place to buy tools, appliances, clothes, or even entire homes; it was a symbol of the American dream throughout most of the last century. It was deeply woven into the fabric of our memories, rituals, and collective identity.

I think back to my own childhood, before the long decline—Saturday afternoons spent with my dad at Sears. The rows of toys that felt endless, the candy and nuts stand we always had to visit, the uncomfortable (yet oddly durable) Toughskins jeans I wore. Best of all, I remember watching him carefully select his Craftsman tools, items that seemed to carry a lifetime guarantee not just backed by warranty, but by a belief in their quality and endurance. Sears wasn’t merely a place where transactions happened—it was a part of life.

But here we are in 2024, with only eight Sears stores still standing in the United States. Eight. Just weeks ago, the store at Seattle’s Southcenter Mall closed its doors, leaving behind another hollow shell. The death of Sears feels somewhat personal, not just for me but for many—like the death of memories, and grappling with the impermanence of even the most towering institutions.

Sears’ origin story reads like the American dream, born in a time when innovation was measured by how accessible it could make the world. Founded in 1886, Richard W. Sears revolutionized retail with his mail-order catalog, a lifeline for rural families wanting access to goods only available in major cities. The Sears catalog wasn’t just a list of products—it was a window into possibility, selling everything from shotguns to dresses to entire homes. Even now, when I pass by the Sears kit house in my neighborhood, it feels like a relic of that creative, groundbreaking spirit—a quiet reminder of the scope of what Sears once achieved.

Fast forward to the mid-20th century, and Sears had grown into an outright retail empire. It opened brick-and-mortar stores, pioneered shopping malls, and became the largest retailer in the world. For decades, Sears was synonymous with trust, quality, and reliability—a crown jewel of the growing American middle class. But, like all empires, Sears was not invincible.

Sears’ downfall is eerily reminiscent of the story of David and Goliath. The towering giant, once unstoppable, was ultimately defeated not by brute force but by cleverness, adaptability, and an opponent’s ability to exploit blind spots. For Sears, its biggest strengths—its massive real estate footprint, its dominance in traditional retail—became its undoing in an era of nimble e-commerce startups and fast-moving competitors.

Sears’ own catalog, which once redefined consumerism, became a relic as the digital age turned paper into pixels, and Amazon created a new blueprint for shopping. It wasn’t one competitor that took Sears down—it was a whole army of smaller disruptions, a death by a thousand digital slings. Add to that management missteps and the erosion of brand equity through the sale of iconic assets like Craftsman, and Sears’ demise became less of an “if” and more of a “when.”

By the time Walmart and Target came after middle-class families, and Amazon came after everyone, Sears was already stumbling. The final blows came as the company struggled to manage its vast network of sprawling stores and hemorrhaging foot traffic. Debt piled up, while innovation moved elsewhere.

It’s tempting to look at Sears’ collapse as a simple tale of survival of the fittest, but I think it’s more layered than that. Sears wasn’t just a victim of poor business decisions—it also fell prey to our culture of speed, disruption, and the pursuit of immediacy over longevity.

We’ve built a modern economy addicted to the "sprint", in our politics, our corporate leadership, our own personal predictions on wealth and earning. We think that by going faster we can bypass the natural stages and lessons of growth. We celebrate disruption and innovation like it’s an endgame, when in reality, disruption without evolution is just chaos. Sears’ legacy didn’t just fall out of relevance; it was swept away by a cultural shift away from steady, generational growth and toward short-term wins.

Look around—how many companies are built to last? We’ve seen similar collapses, organizations undone by their inability to marry tradition with modernity. But today it seems we risk repeating history, but on a faster timeline. Brands launch with brilliance, burn brightly, and often fade just as fast. Is this the new cycle of growth we live by? Is it sustainable to business, customers or employees?

Even as we innovate and reinvent, have we become incapable of building lasting legacies?

Sears teaches us one unrelenting truth about brands—we are only as relevant as our ability to evolve. Even the strongest, most beloved companies can crumble if they get too complacent or refuse to change course. The world doesn’t slow down for nostalgia.

But isn’t there something worth holding on to? Sears was part of a different kind of thread in our collective memory—one that tied community, trust, and familiarity with commerce. It made us feel like buying tools or ordering a washing machine could have meaning beyond function.

With Sears on the brink of disappearing, it’s hard not to feel a sense of nostalgia for an era when companies were more than just businesses—they were cornerstones of our daily lives, deeply embedded in our rituals and culture. This is the kind of connection every company aspires to create today, often promising it without fully investing in the work required to earn it. But will we ever feel the same bond with Amazon, Target, or whatever comes next? Simply being able to purchase from a company doesn’t inspire loyalty or forge lasting connections. A brand is not merely a product, a promise, an experience, an advertisement, or a good deal—it’s the sum of all these elements. Neglecting any part of this equation weakens the whole, leaving the brand vulnerable to being easily replaced.

The synapses of this once-mighty brand are fading, its life support failing. And as I watch Sears take its last breath, I feel a mix of sadness and gratitude for the role it played in my memories. And maybe that’s enough. Because long after its last store closes its doors, Sears will still occupy a place in the collective story of America, a monument to what a brand can achieve—and a cautionary tale for those who forget what makes them endure.

Gabriel Goldman is founder of Challenger Brands an independent brand and creative company that think like strategists, act like a designers and marketers, and dig deep to solve the impossible. We partner with corporate leaders to create those "aha" brand moments that captivate customers—moments that turn heads, spark conversations, and maybe even break the internet (in the best way possible).

For inquiries, please reach out to gabe@challengerbrands.io or learn more at: https://www.challengerbrands.io/