Every January I go through the same ritual – standing in front of my closet in Seattle’s persistent drizzle, staring at last year’s winter clothes and feeling like a complete fraud. Here I am, supposedly this sustainable fashion advocate, and half my cold-weather stuff is either falling apart after one season or made from materials that probably destroyed a small ecosystem somewhere. It’s honestly pretty depressing.
The thing about sustainable winter fashion is that it’s even more complicated than regular sustainable fashion, which is already a nightmare to navigate. Winter clothes need to actually work – like, keep you warm and dry and not disintegrate the first time it rains – but they also tend to be the most expensive pieces in your wardrobe. So when you’re trying to shop ethically and you need a winter coat that costs $400 instead of $89 at Target, the financial reality hits pretty hard.
I’ve been obsessing over this problem since I moved to Seattle seven years ago. Growing up in Boulder, my winter wardrobe was mostly hand-me-downs from my older cousins and whatever my mom found at the co-op’s clothing swaps. I was embarrassed by it then – all my friends had matching North Face everything – but looking back, that was probably the most sustainable approach I’ve ever had to winter dressing. I just didn’t know it at the time.
When I first got serious about ethical fashion five years ago, I made every mistake you can possibly make with winter clothes. I bought this gorgeous $300 “sustainable” wool coat from a brand that turned out to be total greenwashing – the wool wasn’t actually ethically sourced and the factory conditions were questionable at best. The coat itself started pilling after three weeks and had these weird stains that dry cleaning couldn’t remove. Meanwhile, I’d thrown out a perfectly good vintage wool coat I’d thrifted because I was on this kick about only buying from “certified ethical” brands.
God, I was so rigid about it all back then. I remember spending hours researching every single winter purchase, cross-referencing certifications, reading supply chain reports until my eyes glazed over. I turned what should have been simple shopping trips into these elaborate ethical investigations. My friend Maya used to joke that I approached buying a sweater like I was conducting a UN peacekeeping mission.
The reality check came during my second Seattle winter when my expensive ethical coat failed me completely during a January storm. I was walking to a client meeting and got absolutely soaked – turns out the “weather-resistant” wool wasn’t actually waterproof, shocking nobody except apparently me. I ended up buying a $40 rain jacket from REI’s clearance rack out of pure desperation, and you know what? That thing lasted three years and kept me dry every single time.
That’s when I started being more realistic about what “sustainable winter fashion” actually means in practice. It’s not about finding the perfect ethical brand for every single piece – though those exist and I’ll get to them. It’s about building a winter wardrobe that lasts, that you actually wear, and that works with your real life rather than your idealized vision of who you might be.
The foundation of my current winter wardrobe is this vintage military surplus wool coat I found at a thrift store in Fremont two years ago. Cost me $25, probably made sometime in the 1980s, built like an actual tank. The wool is so thick you could probably use it as body armor, and it’s got this amazing liner that buttons in and out. I’ve worn it through two Seattle winters and it looks exactly the same as when I bought it. Compare that to friends who’ve gone through three or four Zara coats in the same time period.
The thing about vintage and secondhand winter clothes is that the quality is often insanely better than what you can buy new, even from expensive brands. Older pieces were made when planned obsolescence wasn’t as much of a thing, when companies actually expected clothes to last for years instead of one season. I’ve got a 1970s sheepskin-lined leather jacket that I found at a consignment shop – it’s been through everything Seattle weather can throw at it and still looks incredible.
But I’ll be honest, thrifting winter clothes takes patience and luck. You can’t just walk into a thrift store in November and expect to find the perfect coat in your size. I’ve learned to shop for next winter during current winter – January and February are when people donate their winter stuff, so that’s when the good pieces show up in stores. I found an amazing down puffer from Patagonia (originally $300, paid $45) in February that I didn’t need until the following November, but I grabbed it because I knew I wouldn’t find another one.
For pieces I can’t find secondhand – and let’s be real, sometimes you just need specific things in specific colors – I’ve identified a few brands that are actually doing sustainability right, not just talking about it. Patagonia obviously, but their stuff is expensive and sometimes a bit too outdoorsy for my daily life. I’ve had better luck with Everlane for basics like merino wool sweaters and their ReNew line made from recycled plastic bottles.
The sweater situation was actually one of my bigger breakthroughs. I used to buy cheap acrylic sweaters from fast fashion brands and replace them constantly because they’d stretch out or pill or just look terrible after a few washes. Now I invest in one or two really good wool sweaters per year – either vintage pieces or from brands like Ganni or & Other Stories when they’re on sale – and take proper care of them. I’ve got this cream fisherman’s knit from a vintage store that’s probably 20 years old and still looks perfect because wool just lasts when you treat it right.
Taking care of winter clothes properly was something I had to learn the hard way. Turns out dry cleaning everything isn’t actually the best approach – it’s expensive and uses harsh chemicals, plus a lot of pieces don’t really need it. I invested in a garment steamer and learned how to properly wash wool by hand for smaller pieces. My cashmere scarves (all thrifted, because $200 for a new cashmere scarf is absolutely insane) get the hand-wash treatment and they’ve lasted years.
The accessories game is where you can really make sustainable winter dressing work on a budget. A good wool scarf, hat, and gloves set can make basic pieces look intentional and put-together. I’ve got this collection of vintage silk scarves that I use constantly – they add color and pattern to my fairly neutral coat collection, and silk is surprisingly warm for how lightweight it is. Found most of them at estate sales for under $10 each, and they’re the kind of pieces that never go out of style.
Boots were my biggest challenge because I walk everywhere in Seattle and need something that can handle rain, cold, and looking professional enough for work meetings. I went through so many terrible pairs – cute boots that weren’t waterproof, waterproof boots that looked like I was about to go hiking, expensive “sustainable” boots that fell apart after one winter. Finally invested in a pair of Blundstones two years ago. Yes, they cost $200 and yes, I felt physically ill spending that much on boots, but they’ve been worth every penny. Completely waterproof, comfortable enough to walk miles in, and they still look great with everything from jeans to work dresses.
The layering strategy has been crucial for making fewer pieces work harder. Instead of buying a different weight coat for every temperature variation, I’ve got my heavy wool coat, a lighter wool cardigan coat for milder days, and various sweaters and long-sleeve shirts that I can mix and match depending on how cold it is. This approach means I’m not storing eight different coats and I actually wear everything I own.
Base layers were a revelation I came to embarrassingly late. Good merino wool long-sleeve shirts and thermal leggings mean you can wear your regular clothes in much colder weather without looking bulky. I’ve got three long-sleeve merino shirts from Smartwool that I wear constantly under everything. They were expensive upfront but I’ve been wearing them for three years and they’re still in perfect condition. Compare that to the cotton long-sleeve shirts I used to layer that would get stretched out and weird after a season.
The one area where I still struggle is formal winter wear. Cocktail parties and work events in winter when you need to look polished but also not freeze to death walking from your car to the venue. I’ve found a few vintage wool blazers that work over dresses, and I’ve got this amazing 1960s coat that’s dressy enough for formal events, but it’s still a work in progress. The sustainable fashion world seems to assume you’re either hiking or wearing jeans all winter.
What I’ve learned is that sustainable winter dressing is less about finding the perfect ethical brand for everything and more about being strategic. Buy fewer, better pieces. Take care of what you have. Shop your own closet before buying new things – I rediscovered so many pieces I’d forgotten about when I did a proper closet audit last fall. And accept that sometimes the most sustainable choice is buying something non-ethical that you’ll actually wear for ten years instead of an ethical piece you’ll replace in two.
I’m still figuring it out, honestly. Last month I panic-bought a cheap polyester scarf because I needed something specific for an event and didn’t plan ahead. I felt terrible about it for days, which is probably not a healthy relationship with consumption, but it’s where I am right now. The goal is progress, not perfection, but some days the progress feels frustratingly slow.
The climate in Seattle helps – it’s not actually that cold compared to places like Minneapolis or Boston, so I don’t need the same level of technical winter gear. But the constant dampness means everything needs to be at least water-resistant, which limits options. I’ve started treating my winter wardrobe like an investment portfolio – a few key pieces that work hard, with smaller additions each year as I find good secondhand pieces or identify gaps that need filling.
This year I’m focused on finding a good sustainable alternative to my aging rain boots and maybe one more warm sweater, but that’s it. The foundation is solid now, which feels like a victory after years of buying random pieces and hoping they’d somehow work together. It’s taken five years to get here, but I finally have a winter wardrobe that keeps me warm, looks decent, and doesn’t make me feel like I’m personally responsible for destroying the planet every time I get dressed.
Riley’s an environmental consultant in Seattle with strong opinions on greenwashing and fast fashion. She writes about sustainability without the guilt trip—realistic tips, honest brand talk, and a reminder that progress beats perfection.
