Gigi On Earth

Over the past year, I’ve gained a deeper understanding of textile waste and strategies for managing end-of-life clothing. In response to this pressing issue, I made the decision to stop purchasing new clothes for an entire year. While I won’t be discussing the broader implications of fast fashion and textile waste in this post, I do explore these topics in more detail in a separate piece.

My journey began in September 2023, following an impulse purchase during a sale at a sustainable brand. Despite the brand’s values, I found myself regretting the purchase, realizing that many of the items I bought were not practical for my day-to-day wardrobe. That moment led me to commit to not buying any new clothing until the end of 2023. After successfully completing that period, I decided to extend the challenge for a full year. Unsurprisingly, it was entirely possible to do so, but what I did not anticipate were the personal and behavioral changes that accompanied this decision.

To begin, I unsubscribed from all clothing-related email lists and unfollowed fashion influencers, removing myself from the constant marketing cycle. I also stopped visiting clothing stores altogether. Having a firm “no new purchases” rule made this easier, as I was no longer tempted to follow trends or feel the need to acquire new “essential” items. It was liberating to walk into a store and know that I wouldn’t be buying anything. This shift freed up mental space—I no longer had to deliberate whether an item was worth buying, whether I would wear it, or if I actually needed it.

One of the most unexpected changes was how my social media experience evolved. I began following thrift enthusiasts and upcyclers, which inspired me to modify my own wardrobe. Instead of acquiring new pieces, I focused on adapting what I already owned. For instance, bodycon dresses that no longer suited my style were transformed into tank tops, and worn-out items were repaired rather than discarded.

Additionally, friends played a significant role in supporting my goal. They informed me of local clothing swap events, such as Evergreen Brickwork’s “Drop, Swap and Shop,” where I could exchange items I no longer used for ones I needed. Many friends also offered me their hand-me-downs, which I often customized to fit my preferences. My friends also made me aware that many people are uncertain about how to responsibly dispose of unwanted clothing and were grateful for the opportunity to pass them along to someone they knew would use them.

Perhaps the most surprising outcome of this challenge was the reconnection with my personal style. As I began thrifting, I noticed a shift in my preferences. Rather than being driven by what was considered fashionable or socially attractive, I focused on whether I genuinely liked the pieces I was selecting. Traditional retail often limits shoppers to what is currently in style, but thrifting opened up a wider range of options across different decades. This allowed me to choose clothing based on my own tastes rather than external trends. This newfound freedom brought significant mental relief, as I no longer felt compelled to compare myself to others or adhere to ever-changing fashion standards. It felt as though I had stepped away from the cycle of constant consumption, making it more difficult for brands to influence my purchasing decisions.

Moreover, I became aware of how much time I had previously spent shopping online. The process of searching for items, followed by endless recommendations for similar products, consumed a substantial amount of time. By eliminating new purchases and focusing on secondhand options, I introduced a pause between the desire for something and its acquisition. This not only reduced my consumption but also forced me to differentiate between genuine needs and fleeting wants.

By stepping away from traditional retail, I was no longer confined to current trends or what brands deemed fashionable, allowing me to explore a more authentic and personal style.