A Maddening and Confusing Relationship With Sustainability

Not too long ago, I wrote about my personal style journey in Leeds, adjusting to a new environment and becoming my own version of Andrea Sachs: an unassuming aspiring journalist turned self-proclaimed fashion connoisseur. A disciple of all things beautiful and sartorial.

But somewhere along the way, I’ve also become painfully aware of just how eco-unconscious I’ve become. Younger me, the self-proclaimed eco-warrior, would’ve looked at current me with an extremely well-practiced side-eye.  

Since then, I’ve become fascinated, almost morbidly entertained, by the life cycle of clothes, particularly as a girl in her twenties at university. Attempting to enter the world of sustainable clothing, while still being a player in the consumerist game. With that being said, this piece seeks to uncover the cycle of clothes I’ve encountered in my early 20s and my confusing relationship with trying to shop sustainably.

There’s one memory that insists on haunting me, no matter how much I try to forget it. It was in 2021 when I’d just had a major manic episode and, in a fog of impulsivity, ordered about £100 worth of Shein clothes. And yet, even now, the shame bubbles up when recounting the story. I know exactly what my purchases cost, not just in terms of landfill space, but in human hours that go underpaid. Somewhere far enough from me that I can live blissfully unaware. And was it worth it? Absolutely not. Not just because I wore some of the clothes once and binned them like a thoughtless capitalist consumer, but because the fashion was as obsolete as it gets. Cow print fake fur mini shorts, swampy green swirl patterned pieces and trashy y2k inspired tops. A perfect representation of the horrors that covid sought to label as fashionable, with trends that deserved to stay in quarantine. It was my first, and last time I ever ordered from Shein.

Ultra-fast fashion monopolies like Shein, Temu and AliExpress are growing at alarming rates. Earth Org has argued that fast fashion has contributed to more than 100 billion garments being produced each year.

“To put things in perspective, this means that the equivalent of a rubbish truck full of clothes ends up on landfill sites every second” says Earth Org.

And it’s not just the cheap fast fashion either, there’s a whole middle-tier genre of fast fashion which goes unnoticed for the most part because it’s more expensive than the latter. These brands dominate university, where everyone’s trying to build an identity on a £20 budget and a next-day delivery schedule. Need a new top for a night out? New distressed jeans because it’s getting warm? No fear, Princess Polly, Motel Rocks, PrettyLittleThing, URBN, ASOS have got you covered. Sometimes good quality, but mostly another version of its competing brands. 

Arguably the most interesting and rapidly expanding market is the influencer-owned brands, which have flooded the fashion space. Marketing themselves as unique projects while simultaneously selling the same polyester jumpsuit that another influencer just launched in their summer collection. Clothing brands as vanity projects that will not last a decade. As most of these influencers aren’t in it for the love of fashion, they’re chasing fast money, and cheap fashion lets them do it.  Each new influencer “collection” chips away at the planet’s resources. Every failed launch leads to fabrics rotting away in landfills.  

Nowadays, when you compliment a girl’s sweatshirt and ask, ‘Where’s that from?’ The answer is usually a shrieked chorus of online resale platforms. The most popular being… Vinted. A glorious second-hand resale app where people sell their preloved clothes at what’s supposed to be a “low” price. I say low in quotations because lately, the girlies have gotten greedy. Once a humble site for bargains, Vinted now feels like a competitive marketplace where everyone’s pitching Zara basics for retail prices.

Although Vinted remains a digital refuge for when you’re stuck between the liminal space in time between bed-rotting and dinner time. Its endless stream of cheap fast fashion and vintage finds often fuels the same cycle of capitalist consumption, just dressed up as conscious shopping.

And then there’s the holy grail of wardrobes, the sacred hand me downs. These are the heirloom vintage treasures so precious that if an estate sale was to happen, their owner would resurface from the dead to ensure their safety. I believe these pieces are as good as it gets because they reduce packaging waste, cut down on CO2 emissions, and if they’ve lasted this long, they’re built to endure a lifetime, making them far better for the environment.

As far as sustainable fashion goes, I think I’ve discovered that there’s no real resolution here except the obvious, to shop from eco-conscious brands when you can, mend what you already own, buy less. Take thread to fabric. The reality is that real sustainability needs to start from the core. A whole new wardrobe change. Not just in our closets, but in the foundations of the industry. But money complicates the dream.  I’ve realised, with a slightly bitter taste, that even though I’m passionate about the climate crisis, my actions haven’t matched my ideals. Not yet anyway.  I am trying by learning how to sew, repurposing clothes in my wardrobe and researching the ethics of brands before I buy. Because even small contributions matter.

As a fleeting thought, I find it endlessly fascinating and deeply frustrating to see who chooses to disengage from the idea of conscious consumerism. The ones who shrug and say “the world’s going to end anyway”, while simultaneously planning to procreate and to dream up golden futures for their children. How ironic, to wish for longevity while leaving the next generation a planet stitched together with rubbish.