I Haven’t Bought New Clothes in 8 Months – And I’m Not The Only One Changing How I Shop

Okay, so here’s something I haven’t admitted to anyone except my therapist and maybe my mom during one of those late-night phone calls where we both pretend we’re not stress-eating: I haven’t bought a single new piece of clothing in eight months. Eight months. For someone who literally writes about sustainable fashion and used to judge my worth by how ethically curated my closet was, this feels… weird? Revolutionary? I honestly can’t tell anymore.

But here’s the thing – I’m definitely not alone in this. The cost of living crisis has absolutely wrecked how we think about clothes, and after spending the last few months talking to women across the UK about their shopping habits (because apparently this is what I do for fun now), I’ve realized we’re all quietly having the same crisis about fashion consumption. Some of what I discovered genuinely shocked me, and I thought I’d seen every possible way people justify buying or not buying clothes.

Take Priya, this marketing exec I met in Manchester who brought her own coffee in a thermos because “paying £4.50 for a latte is basically lighting money on fire.” She used to buy at least two new outfits every month – not even expensive stuff, just regular high street purchases that felt normal. Now she’s on what she calls a “fashion famine” until June because she’s trying to save for a house deposit that keeps getting more impossible as interest rates do their evil dance. “I’ve got a wedding in May,” she told me, “and I’m literally having nightmares about what to wear because buying something new just isn’t happening.”

This total shopping freeze thing is everywhere now. Women who used to shop as emotional regulation – you know, the “I had a bad day so I deserve this dress” mentality – are going completely cold turkey. My friend Sarah, who’s a lawyer and used to celebrate every successful case with new shoes (“cheaper than therapy” was her logic, which… fair), hasn’t bought clothes in four months. She’s trying to replace the shopping high with bubble baths, but she doesn’t sound entirely convinced it’s working.

What’s really fascinating is how these shopping bans have created these weird new social dynamics. Women are basically forming support groups, but instead of talking about addiction recovery, they’re trading clothes and enabling each other’s shopping freezes. Last month I went to one of these clothes swap parties in this tiny flat in South London where eight women – who collectively earn enough to keep several Zara stores in business – just… traded everything. There was actual drama over this barely-worn Ganni dress. Wine was involved, friendships were temporarily tested, and exactly zero pounds were spent on new items.

“It’s better than shopping in some ways,” the host told me while carefully folding a silk blouse she’d just acquired. “You get the excitement of something new, but also the story. Like, Emma bought this for some awful dinner with her ex, but now it’s mine and I’ll wear it to actually good occasions.” There’s something really beautiful about that – fashion as this shared resource instead of this individual competitive thing we usually do.

For people who can’t handle a complete shopping ban (honestly, respect to anyone who can), there’s been this massive shift in where the money goes. Investment pieces aren’t new obviously, but the definition has totally changed. It’s not about splurging on some designer handbag you’ll use twice – it’s about this ruthless mathematical calculation of cost-per-wear that would impress my old economics professor.

“I bought one pair of £200 boots this winter instead of my usual three pairs from Primark,” Lorna, a teacher from Edinburgh, explained to me. We connected through this money-saving forum, which is apparently where I find people to interview now. “I did the math – the expensive ones will last at least five years if I take care of them, while I’d replace the cheap ones every year. It’s actually cheaper to buy expensive, which feels completely backwards when your heating bill has tripled.”

This ultra-analytical approach has created what apparently retail people call “barbell shopping” – spending at the extreme ends while ignoring everything in the middle. So people are either buying basics from Primark or investing in proper quality pieces, but nobody’s shopping at those mid-range places anymore. Walking through any shopping center now is honestly depressing – Primark packed, the expensive ethical brands doing okay, and everything in between just… empty. Sales assistants standing around straightening displays that are already perfect because they have nothing else to do.

The secondhand market has absolutely exploded, but not in the wholesome “circular fashion” way everyone predicted. Yes, Vinted and Depop are making record money, but the reality is often pretty harsh. People aren’t primarily selling clothes they’re bored with – they’re selling because they need cash for groceries.

“I’m selling clothes to pay for food shopping,” Carla, a dental receptionist from Leeds with two kids, told me matter-of-factly. She was photographing dresses against a white bedsheet when we spoke – her DIY product photography setup. “Last month I sold my favorite AllSaints leather jacket that I’d saved for months to buy. Got £87 for it, which covered the weekly shop and new school shoes.” She tried to sound casual about it, but when she showed me the listing marked ‘Sold’, I could see how much it hurt.

But then there are people like Mariam, this sustainability consultant who was wearing the most gorgeous vintage Jaeger suit that looked better than anything currently in shops. “I haven’t bought new clothes in two years,” she said. “Between charity shops, vintage stores, and online resale, my wardrobe is way more interesting than when I bought new, and it costs less financially and environmentally.”

Charity shops have become fashion destinations now, which would have seemed impossible five years ago. The one in Chiswick I visited has a waiting list for volunteer positions and a WhatsApp group that alerts regular customers when good donations come in. It’s wild – you can find the same Arket jumper priced higher in a Hampstead charity shop than it costs new in the actual store, while the Arket shop down the street struggles to sell identical items at full price.

Even the ritual of shopping has completely changed. Those casual Saturday browsing sessions that always resulted in buying something you didn’t plan for? Gone. Everything is strategic now, planned, researched to death.

“I have a seven-step process before buying anything,” Tasha, a project manager who used to order from ASOS multiple times a week, explained. She walked me through it: wishlist, 30-day cooling off period, searching secondhand, checking for sales, hunting discount codes, calculating cost-per-wear, and finally asking if she can afford it without using credit. “I buy about 90% less than I used to, but what I do buy, I actually want and use.”

Online shopping has turned into these intensive research missions. Women spend hours not just finding items but hunting down every possible discount. Those browser extensions that track price histories are essential tools now. The spontaneous purchase high has been replaced by the satisfaction of gaming the system – finding the absolute cheapest way to get exactly what you want.

“I feel genuinely proud when I manage to stack a student discount with a newsletter signup bonus and free delivery,” Yasmin, a PhD student from Cardiff, told me. Her knowledge of retail discount structures could probably be its own academic paper. “It’s like beating the final boss in a video game.”

Social media’s influence has shifted too. Instagram and TikTok still drive trend awareness, but there’s this massive pushback against the constant consumption culture. The comment sections under influencer shopping hauls have gotten brutal – followers questioning both the ethics and the financial reality of excessive buying.

“I unfollowed anyone who made me feel like I needed new things,” Hannah, a nurse from Birmingham, admitted. She estimated she used to spend over £3,000 a year on influencer-recommended stuff. “Now I only follow accounts about styling what you already have. My bank balance and mental health are both way better.”

This has created these new “non-shopping influencers” who build followings through outfit repeating and creative restyling. Some of the smart mainstream influencers have pivoted – replacing “swipe up to buy” with tutorials on alterations or styling one dress five different ways.

But maybe the biggest change is how we view clothes themselves. After decades of treating fashion as disposable entertainment, people are going back to viewing clothing as valuable assets that need maintaining. Repair shops are booming, sewing machine sales are up 30% year on year, and YouTube tutorials on darning get millions of views.

“I spent £45 getting a coat relined that I would have just replaced before,” Olivia, an office manager from Bristol, told me. “My mum would find it hilarious – she was always telling me to take care of my things, and I ignored her for years. Now I’m googling how to remove pilling at midnight.”

As for me? My last six clothing acquisitions include: a cashmere jumper inherited when my friend moved abroad (free), a silk blouse from a clothes swap (free), jeans from Vinted (£28), a dress I already owned but paid £37 to have altered, wool socks my mom knitted (free but emotionally priceless), and yes, one new item – a coat bought on sale that I calculated will cost about 30p per wear over the next decade if I don’t destroy it.

Is this permanent or just temporary crisis adaptation? The fashion industry is definitely hoping it’s temporary. But from all the conversations I’ve had, something fundamental has shifted. Women talk about their pre-crisis shopping habits with this mixture of nostalgia and embarrassment, like remembering a phase they’ve outgrown.

“I can’t imagine going back to how I used to shop, even if money wasn’t an issue,” Sam, an accountant from Glasgow, reflected. “It feels so immature now, buying things just for that momentary high. I like that everything I own has a purpose or a story.”

Maybe that’s the one good thing to come out of this incredibly difficult time. Being forced to reconsider our relationship with fashion has created more meaningful connections to what we wear. The cost of living crisis has been brutal in countless ways, but in pushing us to value, maintain, share, and thoughtfully choose our clothes, it might have accidentally created a healthier fashion culture than the one it disrupted. Whether we can maintain that when things get easier… well, that’s the real test.