That Time I Found the Internet’s Most Famous Dress for Fifteen Bucks

Look, I need to start by saying that thrift shopping is mostly just an exercise in disappointment with occasional moments of pure euphoria thrown in to keep you hooked. It’s like gambling, except instead of losing money on slot machines, you’re digging through racks of someone else’s regrettable fashion choices hoping to strike gold. Most of the time you leave empty-handed and slightly depressed about humanity’s collective taste level.

But sometimes – and I mean very, very rarely – the thrift gods decide to throw you a bone that makes all those fruitless treasure hunts worth it.

So there I was last Tuesday, ducking into the Goodwill in Greenpoint because it was doing that annoying Chicago thing where it’s not quite raining but not quite not raining, you know? That weird mist that somehow manages to soak through your jacket while you’re trying to figure out if you actually need an umbrella. My friend Sarah was running late for coffee (shocking absolutely no one who knows Sarah), and I figured I might as well kill some time looking through whatever fashion disasters were on offer.

I wasn’t expecting to find anything. The last few times I’d gone thrifting, I’d come home with nothing but dusty fingers and a renewed appreciation for how much polyester existed in the early 2000s. I was halfheartedly flipping through a rack of dresses – mostly the kind of bridesmaid horrors that make you wonder what some people’s friends were thinking – when I saw this flash of pink tulle.

And I swear, my brain just stopped working for a second.

Wedged between some beige Calvin Klein thing and what looked like someone’s old holiday party outfit was the Lirika Matoshi Strawberry Dress. You know, THE strawberry dress. The one that broke Instagram in 2020. The one that costs almost five hundred dollars and had people writing think pieces about pandemic fashion fantasy. Just hanging there with a $14.99 price tag like it was any other random dress.

I actually whispered “no freaking way” out loud, which earned me a look from this older woman digging through cardigans nearby. But I couldn’t help it. I mean, what are the odds? I’d stared at this dress on the Lirika Matoshi website probably fifty times during lockdown, always closing the tab when I remembered I had rent to pay and no actual occasions that called for a whimsical tulle creation covered in sequined strawberries.

My first instinct was total suspicion because I’m not stupid – viral designer pieces don’t just show up at Goodwill for fifteen bucks without there being some kind of catch. I checked the label first, looking for signs it was a knockoff, but everything seemed legit. The tag, the stitching, even the way the strawberries were placed matched what I remembered from all those Instagram posts.

Then I started hunting for damage. Had to be a huge stain or a massive tear or something, right? But aside from some barely noticeable pilling on the tulle (the kind you’d only spot if you were examining it like I was, with the intensity of a forensic investigator), it was in amazing condition. The sequined strawberries were all intact, the layers of tulle weren’t torn, even the care label was still readable.

I checked the size – medium, which isn’t usually what I grab but I remembered the dress was supposed to fit kind of loose and ethereal anyway. This particular Goodwill doesn’t have fitting rooms you can actually use, so I had to make a judgment call. Honestly, even if it didn’t fit, I would’ve paid fifteen dollars just for the story of finding the most memed dress of 2020 at a random Brooklyn thrift store.

The guy at the register – early twenties, covered in tattoos, completely unbothered by what was potentially the greatest thrift score in recent history – rang it up without so much as a second glance. I wanted to shake him and be like, “Do you understand what just happened here?” But I managed to restrain myself and just handed over my credit card like a normal person making a normal purchase.

I texted Sarah that we needed to reschedel coffee because of a fashion emergency, then practically ran home through the drizzle with the dress carefully folded in my tote bag. The entire ride back on the L train, I kept peeking into the bag to make sure it was still there and I hadn’t just hallucinated the whole thing.

Back in my apartment, I tried it on with the kind of nervous energy usually reserved for job interviews or first dates. Thrift store sizing is basically a lottery, and designer sizing can be even weirder. There was a very real chance this medium would fit like a garbage bag or a tourniquet, with no middle ground.

But when I looked in my mirror… guys, it was perfect. Like, suspiciously perfect. The length hit exactly right on my legs, the sleeves were poufy in that romantic way instead of looking like I was cosplaying as a 1980s bridesmaid, and those little sequined strawberries caught the light from my crappy apartment fixture like tiny disco balls. I stood there staring at myself for probably a full minute, just trying to process that this was actually happening.

Then I did what any reasonable adult would do and had a complete solo dance party in my living room while my cat watched me with obvious judgment. I mean, when else was I going to get to twirl around in the internet’s most famous dress?

Mid-twirl, I started wondering about whoever owned this before me. Like, who drops nearly five hundred dollars on a whimsical strawberry dress and then donates it to Goodwill? I came up with all these theories – maybe it was bought for some special occasion that got cancelled when everything shut down in 2020. Maybe someone moved cities and had to downsize their wardrobe drastically. Maybe it was one of those pandemic impulse purchases that seemed like a good idea during lockdown but felt ridiculous once real life started happening again.

Whatever their story was, I was definitely the beneficiary of their loss.

I immediately sent a photo to my friend Emma, who has the most dramatic reactions to fashion discoveries. Her response was appropriately unhinged: “SHUT UP. THE STRAWBERRY DRESS??? FROM GOODWILL??? I’M COMING OVER RIGHT NOW WITH CHAMPAGNE.”

She showed up an hour later with a bottle of prosecco, declaring that finding this dress required proper celebration. We spent the evening taking increasingly ridiculous photos of me spinning around my apartment in full strawberry regalia, which felt both completely over the top and totally necessary. I mean, when do you get to celebrate finding a piece of actual fashion history for the price of a couple fancy coffee drinks?

For anyone who somehow missed the Great Strawberry Dress Phenomenon of 2020 – where were you, living under a rock? – let me explain why this was such a big deal. Designer Lirika Matoshi created this incredibly feminine, completely impractical dress that became the unofficial uniform of pandemic fashion escapism. While everyone was living in sweatpants and wondering if real pants would ever be necessary again, this frothy pink confection represented everything our locked-down lives weren’t.

It was everywhere online. Influencers posed in it in their bedrooms, artists made illustrations of it, it spawned a million knockoffs and debates about design theft. The dress became more than just clothing – it was a cultural moment, a symbol of wanting something beautiful and frivolous during a time when the world felt pretty dark.

And somehow, through some cosmic alignment of thrifting luck, I now owned it for less than what I usually spend on lunch in a week.

The next morning, I faced the obvious question: what do you actually do with a viral tulle fantasy dress in regular everyday life? The whole appeal of the original was partly its impracticality – this wasn’t meant for grocery shopping or office meetings. It was meant for looking ethereal on Instagram.

But you know what? I’ve never let practicality stop me from wearing something I love. Working in marketing might not be the most creative environment, but I’ve always figured it’s better to be overdressed than boring. So I decided to wear the Strawberry Dress to work the very next day.

I toned it down with black boots and my leather jacket, going for “fairy princess meets rock concert” vibes. Walking into our morning meeting, I definitely got some looks. My manager Janet glanced up from her laptop, did this perfect double-take, and just stared at me.

“Greenpoint Goodwill,” I said before she could ask. “Fifteen dollars. I have the receipt.”

I thought Janet was going to choke on her coffee. This is a woman who barely reacts when celebrities walk through our building, and she was genuinely speechless.

“That’s the most ridiculous thrift luck I’ve ever seen,” she finally managed. “You realize people were on waiting lists for that dress, right?”

Throughout the day, reactions ranged from pure excitement (our youngest team member literally squealed) to total confusion (the accounting guy from upstairs kept looking at me like he was trying to figure out if today was some holiday he’d forgotten about). At least six people asked to take pictures with me, which made me feel weirdly protective of my find. This wasn’t just content for their social media – this was my once-in-a-lifetime thrift score.

By the end of the day, I’d been tagged in multiple Instagram stories, demonstrated my twirling abilities twice, and got contacted by some vintage reseller who wanted to hire me as a buyer based on my “obviously supernatural thrifting powers.”

That weekend, I wore it again to my friend Mike’s rooftop birthday party. As the sun was setting over the city, casting everything in this perfect golden light that matched my pink tulle situation, this woman I’d never met came over to me.

“Oh my god, is that THE dress?” she asked, eyes wide. “The strawberry one everyone was obsessed with?”

I nodded, ready to launch into my now-perfected story about the miraculous Goodwill discovery.

“I almost bought that when it first went viral,” she continued, “but I couldn’t justify spending that much on something so… specific, you know? I kind of regret not getting it now.”

“Trust me, I totally get it,” I told her. “I could never have afforded it at full price either. Finding it thrifting felt like the universe finally throwing me a bone.”

She laughed and raised her drink. “Well, it looks like it was meant to be yours. Some things just find the right person eventually.”

And that’s really the magic of an amazing thrift find, isn’t it? It’s not just about the money you saved or the brand name you scored. It’s that feeling that somehow, in a city full of millions of people, in a random thrift store you only entered to escape bad weather, this specific item made its way to you. Like it was always supposed to be yours, you just had to wait for the right moment to find each other.

I’ve worn the Strawberry Dress to art gallery openings, dinner parties, and yes, even to get coffee on a Sunday morning paired with an oversized cardigan and flats – going for “whimsical bookstore regular who might bump into her soulmate while reaching for the same novel” energy. The soulmate thing didn’t happen, but the barista did give me a free muffin, so I’m calling it a win.

The dress now hangs in my closet next to all my practical black work dresses and boring jeans, and sometimes I catch a glimpse of those sequined strawberries and feel that same rush of thrifting euphoria all over again. For fifteen dollars and a little bit of luck, I didn’t just get a designer dress – I got a piece of fashion history, the best conversation starter ever, and proof that sometimes the thrifting gods actually do smile down on us regular people.

Even on random rainy Tuesday afternoons in Brooklyn.