After Topshop Died: Where Young Professionals Actually Shop Now

I’ve been thinking about Topshop a lot lately, which feels ridiculous since I work in finance and should probably have more pressing concerns than the collapse of a British retailer. But here’s the thing – even though I’m based in Boston now, Topshop was my gateway drug into actually caring about fashion during business school. When it shuttered in 2021, I felt this weird sense of loss, like losing touch with a friend who’d helped shape your taste.

Last month I was in London for work meetings (trying to look appropriately polished in my Theory blazer while secretly missing the days when I could pop into Oxford Street between classes), and I started paying attention to what the twenty-something women around me were actually wearing. Not just the obvious stuff – everyone’s still carrying Jacquemus bags if they can afford them – but where their clothes were coming from. The pieces that looked effortless but clearly weren’t H&M. You know what I mean.

So I did what any nosy person would do – I started asking. The junior analyst on our London team, Emma, was wearing this perfectly cut blazer that looked expensive but had that slightly edgy cut that screamed “not boring corporate wear.” When I complimented it, she lit up. “Oh, it’s from &Other Stories! I basically live there now.” That led to a forty-minute conversation about post-Topshop shopping that was honestly more engaging than most of our quarterly reviews.

What struck me immediately was how fragmented everything has become. When I was getting into fashion – you know, really caring about it beyond just not looking terrible – Topshop was this one-stop solution. Need interview clothes? Topshop had blazers. Going out? They had the bodycon dresses and strappy heels. Weekend casual? Sorted. It was like fashion training wheels for those of us who hadn’t grown up with naturally impeccable taste.

Now? These women are shopping like seasoned fashion editors, even the ones fresh out of university. They’re not looking for one brand to solve all their problems – they’re curating. Emma breaks it down like she’s presenting an investment strategy: “&Other Stories for work pieces that won’t make me look like I’m playing dress-up. Weekday for denim because their cuts are amazing. Monki when I want something fun. And honestly, loads of vintage stuff from Depop.”

That last part caught my attention because, I mean, when I was starting my career I wanted everything new and shiny. Hand-me-downs felt like failure, not sustainability. But talking to more young women in London – baristas, junior lawyers, marketing assistants – I kept hearing about Depop. Not just for quirky vintage finds, but for serious wardrobe building.

“I got this Ganni dress for £80 that would’ve been £250 new,” says Priya, a 25-year-old I met at a networking event who was wearing said dress and looking absolutely incredible. “The previous owner had worn it maybe twice. It’s basically new, just not technically.” She pulls up her Depop app and shows me her saved searches – specific designers, specific cuts, specific colors. This isn’t casual browsing; it’s strategic shopping.

The sustainability angle is huge, which honestly makes me feel a bit guilty about my own shopping habits. I can afford to buy new, so I do. But these women are thinking about environmental impact in ways that just weren’t on my radar at their age. “Fast fashion feels gross now,” says Charlotte, a 24-year-old management consultant whose work wardrobe makes mine look sloppy despite probably costing half as much. “Like, why would I buy something that’ll fall apart when I can find better quality secondhand for the same price?”

For the pieces they do buy new, quality matters more than quantity. This feels familiar – it’s basically what I learned working in corporate environments, just arriving at it earlier. “I’d rather save up for one really good blazer than buy three cheap ones,” says Rebecca, whose perfectly tailored navy jacket prompted me to ask where she got it (Arket, £120, worth every penny according to her cost-per-wear calculations that would make my finance brain proud).

The brands they’re gravitating toward aren’t necessarily obvious Topshop replacements. COS comes up constantly – that minimalist, architectural aesthetic that works equally well in boardrooms and trendy restaurants. “It’s like elevated basics,” explains Sophie, a 26-year-old who works in tech and somehow makes simple pieces look editorial. “The kind of stuff that looks expensive even when you’re not trying too hard.”

Weekday is another favorite, particularly for denim. “Their jeans fit like they were made for me,” says Maya, demonstrating the kind of casual confidence in a pair of wide-leg trousers that I’m still working toward at 35. The Swedish brand has this cool-girl aesthetic that feels very London despite being Scandinavian – all clean lines and interesting proportions.

But here’s what’s really interesting: they’re not just shopping at obvious fashion retailers. I kept hearing about Dickies, Carhartt, even Uniqlo for basics. “Workwear is having a moment,” explains Alex, whose oversized Carhartt jacket over a silk slip dress shouldn’t work but absolutely does. “It’s well-made, it lasts forever, and it looks effortlessly cool.”

The other trend that fascinates me is the rise of smaller British brands. Names I’ve never heard of – House of Sunny, Damson Madder, Olivia Rose The Label – but that clearly have cult followings among fashion-conscious twenty-somethings. “I follow all these smaller brands on Instagram,” says Leila, whose feed is basically a masterclass in effortless styling. “They drop new pieces and I’ll screenshot things I want, then save up for them. It feels more special than just buying whatever’s in the window at Zara.”

This is such a shift from how I learned to shop. We went to stores, browsed racks, made impulse purchases. These women are creating wish lists, researching brands, building relationships with retailers. It’s more intentional, more considered. Probably healthier, if I’m honest.

The online-first approach extends to how they discover new brands too. TikTok comes up constantly – not for haul videos exactly, but for styling inspiration and brand recommendations. “I found my favorite vintage dealer through TikTok,” says Georgia, showing me a perfectly curated Instagram feed of pre-loved designer pieces. “She finds the most incredible stuff and styles it in ways I never would’ve thought of.”

ASOS still features heavily, but not in the way you might expect. “I use it like a department store,” explains Hannah, a marketing manager whose ability to mix high-street and designer pieces makes me slightly jealous. “I’ll search for specific brands rather than just browsing ASOS Design. Like, I can get Weekday, Monki, and New Girl Order all in one order.”

Urban Outfitters occupies a similar space – more curator than brand. “Their clothes are hit or miss,” admits Sarah, whose vintage band tee and tailored trousers combination is giving me serious style envy. “But they stock loads of brands I like, plus their homeware is actually good. It’s like a cool department store.”

What’s missing from all this is the theatrical experience that Topshop provided. That sense of event, of discovery, of being somewhere that mattered in fashion. The Oxford Street flagship was like a fashion theme park – multiple floors, celebrity collaborations, that constant feeling that something exciting might happen. Nothing has replaced that, and maybe nothing can in our increasingly online world.

But there’s something exciting about what’s emerged instead. These young women are building wardrobes with intention and creativity that honestly puts my own shopping habits to shame. They’re supporting smaller brands, thinking about environmental impact, making pieces work harder through thoughtful styling. It’s more sophisticated than the Topshop era’s “buy everything, figure it out later” approach.

The financial side of me appreciates their cost-per-wear thinking and investment approach to dressing. The fashion enthusiast in me loves seeing how they’re discovering new brands and styling pieces in unexpected ways. And honestly? It’s made me rethink my own shopping habits. Maybe I don’t need to default to the same reliable retailers I’ve been using since business school. Maybe there’s room for more creativity, more consideration, more intentionality in how I build my wardrobe.

Back in Boston now, I’ve started following some of the smaller British brands I heard about. I’ve downloaded Depop (though I haven’t bought anything yet – baby steps). I’ve been paying more attention to what younger women in my office are wearing and where they’re shopping. Not because I want to dress like I’m 25 again, but because they’re approaching fashion in ways that seem smarter than how I learned to do it.

The death of Topshop felt like the end of something important. But talking to these women, seeing how they’re shopping now, it feels more like evolution. They’re taking the best parts of what made Topshop special – the accessibility, the trend awareness, the democratic approach to style – and applying it to a more diverse, sustainable, thoughtful way of dressing. That’s not a bad legacy, honestly. Even if I do miss that Oxford Street flagship sometimes.