I have a confession to make that would have gotten me fired from any respectable fashion publication circa 2019: I buy things because TikTok tells me to. Me, a thirty-something fashion editor who’s attended Paris Fashion Week, interviewed actual designers, and once had Anna Wintour briefly make eye contact with me before looking away (a career highlight, truly). I should know better. I do know better. And yet, there I was at 1:17 AM last Tuesday, bathed in the blue light of my phone, typing in my credit card number to buy what was essentially glorified long underwear because some 23-year-old with incredible cheekbones told me it would “change my life.”
But here’s the thing—sometimes those 23-year-olds with the cheekbones are right.
My descent into TikTok-influenced purchasing began innocently enough during the early pandemic when time lost all meaning and I found myself in hour three of watching videos of people organising their refrigerators. Somewhere between sourdough tutorials and dance challenges, TikTok’s algorithm figured out I worked in fashion and started serving me an endless stream of style content. At first, I watched with the smug detachment of someone who considers themselves an “industry insider,” mentally critiquing the trend predictions and styling choices.
“Brat summer isn’t actually a thing,” I’d mutter to myself while simultaneously taking notes on what Gen Z was wearing. “And that’s not even the right way to wear those jeans.”
Then it happened. I saw a video about these ridiculously simple black ballet flats from Amazon that supposedly looked exactly like a pair from The Row but cost $25 instead of $850. The comments section was filled with fashion people—actual fashion people I recognised from industry events—swearing these were “literally identical” and “the best dupe ever.” After watching approximately seventeen more videos featuring the same flats, I bought them. When they arrived three days later, I reluctantly put them on and… well, damn it. They were good. Really good. Comfortable, chic in that understated European way, and they genuinely did look eerily similar to their designer inspiration.
Just like that, the dam broke. I became one of those people constantly saying, “Oh, I saw this on TikTok” when friends complimented my clothes. My once carefully curated wardrobe of investment pieces and vintage finds was now infiltrated by things an algorithm had convinced me to buy. Some were disasters (like the “universally flattering” jumpsuit that made me look like a maintenance worker at a nuclear power plant), but others were genuinely fantastic additions to my closet that I might never have discovered through traditional fashion channels.
After months of unhinged TikTok shopping followed by rigorous real-world testing, I’ve become something of an expert on separating the genuine finds from the overhyped disappointments. Consider this your field guide from someone who has fallen for both the hits and the misses so you don’t have to.
First up: those “butter leggings” that everyone swore would make your legs look like they’d been airbrushed by professionals. After seeing roughly 400 videos of women twirling in them, I ordered a pair at midnight while eating leftover pad thai in bed. Price point: $23. Expectations: unreasonably high. The verdict? Surprisingly legitimate. They have a weight to the fabric that you rarely find at that price point and a truly flattering high waist that doesn’t roll down every time you sit. Have they changed my life? No. Have they become the thing I reach for most often when I need to look semi-put-together for a last-minute video call? Absolutely. Worth the hype, though perhaps not quite deserving of the almost religious fervor they’ve inspired online.
Then there’s the infamous Amazon drop shoulder sweater that supposedly looked like it came from some small, overpriced boutique in Copenhagen. I ordered it in beige (because TikTok said that was the most “expensive-looking” colour, and who am I to question the wisdom of the algorithm?). When it arrived, I was skeptical—the packaging had that distinctive smell of items that have traveled a very long way in a very short time. But once on, I had to admit it looked far more expensive than its $37 price tag, with a perfectly oversized fit that somehow didn’t venture into sloppy territory. I’ve since worn it to industry events where people have literally asked if it’s “that new Toteme knit,” which I consider the highest possible compliment for something that cost less than two cocktails in Manhattan.
Not all TikTok-famous fashion items have earned their place in my regular rotation, though. The viral crossbody phone holder bag that everyone swore was “so practical” and “goes with everything”? It was giving very strong tourist-afraid-of-pickpockets energy, and not in an ironic fashion way. The ultra-stretchy bodysuit that claimed to “snatch you like shapewear but comfortable enough to sleep in” turned out to be a compression garment masquerading as fashion—I nearly dislocated my shoulder trying to pee while wearing it. And don’t get me started on the “one-size-fits-all” denim shorts that would perhaps fit all if we were a society of extremely thin giraffes.
But the most surprising TikTok-induced purchase that’s earned a permanent place in my wardrobe? A pair of platform Crocs. Yes, Crocs. The shoes that were once the universal symbol of giving up on life are now arguably cool, and no one is more shocked about this development than me. I bought them as a joke after seeing a fashion stylist I deeply respect wearing them in a behind-the-scenes video. “This has gone too far,” I thought as I added them to my cart, “Fashion has eaten itself.” They arrived, I put them on intending to take one ironic photo for my Instagram story, and then… I didn’t take them off for the rest of the weekend. They’re comfortable to the point of absurdity, weirdly flattering with wide-leg pants, and have prompted more compliments from strangers than almost anything else I own. The world makes no sense anymore, and I’ve made peace with that.
Perhaps the most legitimate category of TikTok fashion finds is the app’s uncanny ability to resurface genuinely good basics from mall brands that fashion insiders typically ignore. Take the J.Crew perfect trench that went viral last fall. I hadn’t stepped foot in a J.Crew since approximately 2014, convinced the brand had nothing to offer someone who considered themselves Serious About Fashion. Then my For You Page served me video after video of impossibly chic women wearing this trench, styling it in ways that looked current rather than catalogue. During a moment of weakness (or clarity, depending on your perspective), I ordered it. It’s now the outerwear I reach for most consistently, with a weight and cut that genuinely rivals trenches three times its price.
Similarly, the Abercrombie 90s ultra-high rise straight jeans that dominated TikTok for months have become my go-to denim. If you’d told me a year ago that I’d be willingly walking into Abercrombie & Fitch as an adult woman, I would have laughed in your face. But here we are. After seeing hundreds of women with wildly different body types swear by these jeans, I swallowed my pride and ordered a pair. They’re legitimately excellent—the perfect amount of rigid structure with just enough stretch, a rise that actually comes up to your natural waist, and a straight leg that somehow flatters both sneakers and boots. I now own them in three washes and have evangelized them to every woman I know, becoming exactly the type of person I used to roll my eyes at.
The platform has also been remarkably effective at identifying smaller brands worth knowing before they hit mainstream recognition. I discovered Djerf Avenue through TikTok well before I started seeing their perfect button-downs featured in traditional fashion publications. Same with House of Sunny’s now-ubiquitous knit vests and Farai London’s cut-out dresses. There’s something to be said for an algorithm that can identify promising designers based solely on genuine enthusiasm rather than marketing budgets.
Of course, for every legitimate find, there are dozens of products that go viral simply because they photograph well or lend themselves to dramatic before-and-after reveals. The “flattering on everyone” Amazon dress with 12,000 reviews? Turns out “everyone” doesn’t include women with my particular combination of height and chest size, and the fabric felt like it might spontaneously combust if exposed to an open flame. The supposedly game-changing makeup setting spray was mostly just expensive water with a slight floral scent. The “perfect white tee” pilled after one wash.
The most valuable skill I’ve developed through my TikTok shopping adventures is learning to identify which types of viral products are most likely to disappoint. Anything promising to be universally flattering is almost certainly lying. Products with overwhelmingly positive reviews but only a handful of very similar-looking people demonstrating them should trigger immediate skepticism. And anything described as “better than the designer version” will be exactly as good as its price point suggests, not a magical exception to the general rules of manufacturing and materials.
That said, there’s a particular category of TikTok fashion find that consistently delivers: specific problem-solving products that address common wardrobe issues. The silicone nipple covers that actually stay put through an entire sweaty night of dancing? Life-changing. The double-sided fashion tape that can temporarily hem pants when you don’t have time for alterations? Genuinely useful. The weird little devices that keep your button-down shirts from gaping? They work exactly as promised.
My colleague Taylor, who is both younger and cooler than me, has a theory about why TikTok drives fashion discovery more effectively than traditional channels. “It’s because you’re seeing real bodies in motion,” she told me over coffee last week. “Not just perfectly styled, perfectly lit, perfectly edited images. You see how things actually move, how people adjust them throughout the day. It’s fashion in real life, not fashion in fantasy.”
She’s onto something. The most compelling TikTok fashion content often features people in their actual homes, under less-than-ideal lighting, moving around to show different angles. It’s strangely more honest than the highly curated world of fashion magazines and brand campaigns. There’s an authenticity to watching someone candidly explain that yes, these pants give you a weird crotch situation if you sit certain ways, but they’re still worth buying because of how good your butt looks in them.
My journey from skeptic to convert hasn’t been without moments of identity crisis.
There’s something faintly embarrassing about being a fashion professional who’s influenced by the same content as college students and suburban moms. But I’ve come to see TikTok as just another fashion source—one with unexpected democracy and occasional brilliance mixed in with the inevitable misses.
Just last week, I found myself at a fashion week dinner seated next to the accessories editor from a major magazine. We were discussing the upcoming season’s bag trends when she leaned over and whispered, “Between us, have you tried those viral Amazon ballet flats? I can’t stop wearing mine.”
I nodded knowingly and whispered back, “Just ordered my second pair.”
She looked relieved. “Thank god. I thought I was the only one.”
We’re not. We’re all just trying to figure out which parts of our TikTok feeds to trust and which parts to scroll past. And sometimes, just sometimes, that perfect $25 Amazon find really is as good as they say it is. Just don’t tell Anna Wintour.
