I Stopped Buying Newly Made Clothes and Never Looked Back

I haven’t bought any newly made clothes in two years, and instead of feeling restricted, I’ve never felt happier.

This did not start with some noble ideal of reducing textile waste or helping the environment, and I’m by no means a minimalist.

Two years ago, I was fresh out of grad school with no disposable income to speak of, and I simply could not keep up with the rising cost of everything, from jeans that could barely survive one wash to dresses made entirely of polyester that cost hundreds.

On my quest to find an alternative to paying more for clothes that are declining in quality, I discovered a thrift store a couple of blocks from where I live. I told my partner, who looked at me in disbelief, that this was how I could opt out of some key components of our consumerist lives and save some money. We started a bet between us over whether I could find most of my essentials there, especially clothing.

Two years later, it is safe to say that I won that bet.

Aside from saving money and helping keep clothes out of the landfill, I have been freed from the influence of advertisements that formerly consumed my attention, and found a community that loves to create and share.

Advertisements no longer work on me

Knowing that I won’t be buying anything newly made, I stopped giving attention to ads and endless videos of people’s latest hauls, which used to clog my Explore Page on Instagram.

Without an influence constantly telling me what the trend is, I not only have free rein to channel my creative energy toward curating a collection I would still happily wear a decade from now, but I’m also freed from comparison.

I logically know that clothes don’t look the same on normal people as they do in ads, but I usually can’t get their image out of my head. As a result, my shopping experience is often spoiled by self-judgment and disappointment when I gravitate toward things that look great on someone else, but not on myself.

When shopping secondhand, there are no ads, no one to tell you what a shirt is meant to be paired with, and there is a wide array of styles to browse, spanning decades. I got the chance to discover what brings me joy to wear, like my $25 Yugoslavia sweater with tiny knitted 3D tulips on it, and learned to disregard trends like the “sneakerina” and the clean girl aesthetic that even British Vogue says “simply won’t die.”

Also, if you have ever cringed at what you wore as a teenager, you know that fashion is often about trial and error. There is no lower stake in trying out a new style than an $8 skirt that you can donate back if it turns out to be a mistake.

I found a creative community

As an adult, no longer in school, I used to find it hard to make new friends, but that changed when my consumption habits changed.

From the neighbourhood barista I bonded with over old film cameras and a stained glass lamp, to the private chef I befriended while playing dress up with thrift store shoes together, I got to encounter people from different walks of life who share the same curious and imaginative energy.

We now find each other thrifted birthday gifts, and have group chats to discuss our latest finds and to share the outfits we are proud to have put together for under $30.

The community built upon passing on pre-owned items makes for an educational and welcoming shopping experience. They care deeply about the stories and lives behind what they have, and there is often no pressure to buy.

I frequently browse through vintage markets without any expectation that I would take anything home. A vendor recently explained to me how she made an amazing denim patchwork jacket I instantly fell in love with. Instead of pushing me to make a purchase, she encouraged me to pick up sewing.

Another brought her collection of Art Deco-era jewelry to the market just to showcase it. I got to marvel at a necklace with a beetle at the center, adorned with Czech beads and vaseline glass that glows in the dark.

And as for what I won out of the bet with my partner? He needs to come shopping with me and help carry my finds. It only took two weeks before he started thrifting for himself without me.