There are over 3,000 distinct Squishmallows. They have names, biographies, and astrological signs. There is one shaped like a hamburger and one shaped like a plague doctor. The company releases them in “drops” — limited quantities that sell out in hours. The secondary market for rare Squishmallows resembles the sneaker resale economy. Children trade them at school with the seriousness of commodities traders.
Why?
The Squishmallow is not a technological innovation. It is a marshmallow-shaped pillow with a printed face. Its primary material is polyester fiberfill. Its manufacturing cost is negligible. And yet Kellytoy, the company that makes them, was acquired by Jazwares in 2019 for a sum that has never been disclosed but is widely reported to be in the hundreds of millions.
There are several theories for the Squishmallow’s success.
Softness. The filling is proprietary — a “squishy” texture that invites squeezing. Unlike traditional stuffed animals that maintain their shape, Squishmallows yield to pressure and slowly rebound. This creates a sensory feedback loop. The object responds to touch. For children with sensory processing differences, this is particularly satisfying.
Collectibility. Each Squishmallow has a name, a birthday, and a “squad” (themed group: food squad, fantasy squad, sea life squad). The combination of infinite variety and finite availability triggers the collecting instinct. The desire for completeness drives repeat purchases.
The face. Squishmallow faces are minimal — two dot eyes and a smile. This is not an accident. Research in developmental psychology shows that infants prefer simplified faces over realistic ones. The minimal face is a super-stimulus for the caretaking instinct. Squishmallows look like they need to be taken care of.
The size range. Squishmallows come in 11 sizes, from 2-inch clips to 24-inch pillows. This creates a tiered economy: the clip goes on the backpack, the 8-inch sits on the bed, the 16-inch is a pillow, the 24-inch is a body pillow. Each size serves a different function, justifying multiple purchases.
The pandemic. Squishmallows peaked during COVID-19. Their softness, their collectibility, their face — everything about them is suited to a moment when children needed comfort objects more than ever.
What is less discussed is what happens when the collecting impulse fades. After the peak of the craze, thousands of Squishmallows end up in donation bins. The ones that survive are the ones that meant something — not the rare ones, but the ones that became a child’s lovey. The peacock named Brenda that went to the doctor. The hamburger that traveled in the car. The plague doctor that was a joke that became a friend.
The Squishmallow phenomenon will be studied by toy historians for decades. But for the child who has one, it’s not a phenomenon. It’s Brenda.