Starting with Good Intentions
My last proper clothing haul was back in August, when I attended a wedding. Even then, I didn’t really shop, I made something instead. That moment felt important. How can I guide people on a sustainability journey if I’m not even able to stick to it myself?
Since then, I’ve mostly survived by recycling what I already own. At times, that’s been fine. At other times, honestly, it’s been painful. I’ve wanted to try new things, to refresh, to feel different. Actually, scratch that, I needed a pair of black jeans. I had worn my existing pair into the ground….
The Reality of Wearing What You Own
In September, I returned to university for my final term and decided I was going to ‘black myself out’ recycle everything I owned and work within it. The problem? I only had one pair of jeans I genuinely felt good wearing. I technically own more, but they’re skinny jeans. And as we’ve discussed before, skinny jeans are very much out of trend.
This brought me straight into my next dilemma: how do you break free from trend habits when you were raised inside them?
Growing Up Inside Trend Culture
As a millennial who grew up on Sex and the City, Gossip Girl, and The Devil Wears Prada, fashion was never neutral. Being on trend wasn’t optional, it was cultural education. Fashion sat high on the agenda, and trend cycles shaped how we saw ourselves. I managed to stay very on trend throughout most of my twenties and early thirties. But now that I’ve curbed my consumption, staying on trend feels almost impossible without buying new.
The irony is that I’ve become completely opposed to the idea of being “on trend” at all. Trend culture is the driver of fashion’s disposability, the constant churn that has allowed clothing to become throwaway. And yet… here I am, trying desperately to avoid skinny jeans.
My eyes have changed. What I once loved now feels tired. I haven’t been forced to change, my taste has shifted naturally. Seeing skinny jeans over and over again, worn by the throw-on-anything generation and local drug users alike (no judgement, just observation), is enough to turn this millennial all the way off. I’ve been drawn to barrel-leg silhouettes long before I knew they were called barrel jeans. Ever since I became obsessed with the zoot suit back in 2018. I’ve always had a knack for spotting trends early, but that gift feels irrelevant now that I’m actively trying to step away from trend altogether.
We’ll unpack that contradiction in another article. For now, this is where things get very real.
When Real Life Gets Involved
I have a 40th birthday party at the end of January. There’s a colour code: royal blue.
If you’ve seen my wardrobe (Video Above) or my key items, you’ll know royal blue is almost entirely absent. I’ve lost count of how many times my friends have put me on a dress code that feels wildly out of my comfort zone, and this time was no different. I did, however, find a beautiful royal blue Warehouse dress that I haven’t worn since I was 24. Unfortunately, it shows. What I remembered as a loose, easy fit had me looking like a squashed metaphor waiting to happen.
This was stressful. I’ve cancelled events before over dress codes (an all-white theme is basically a sin for someone who lives in black), but this was a best friend. Cancelling wasn’t an option. So the journey began.
I considered renting again, but quickly remembered why I stopped: you have to go in-store. You have to try things on. Something to remember for next time.
Instead, I turned to Vinted. Second-hand felt like the most sustainable option available to me right now. Yes, there’s the risk of not trying things on. I figured if I bought slightly bigger, I could use my sewing skills to adjust.
Vinted became fun! Maybe too fun. I found bargains. A River Island dress, currently retailing at £41 cost me £7.
The second was a fringe dress, mixed with my beloved black, made by Canadian designer Frank Lyman. It is currently retailing at £55, reduced from £120, according to the label on the dress I received. At £22, it was a steal for me.
But when they arrived, something felt off. Neither dress felt like me. Which was interesting, because both were very on trend. That’s when it hit me: I really need to refine my personal style — maybe give it a yearly facelift and a five-year revamp.
Trying to Name My Style
I started looking for ways to understand why none of this was landing, rather than jumping straight to fixing it. That’s when I came across a TikTok creator who suggested summarising your personal style into three words. At first, it felt neat, almost too neat, but it gave me a place to pause rather than panic.
Her three words were sexy, oversized, sporty. When I tried the exercise myself, my mind didn’t land so cleanly. I circled things like punk goth, dark, witchy, eventually collapsing them into something closer to mysterious. I realised I’m drawn to transparency, sheer layers, glimpses of skin. I struggled to find a word that didn’t feel overly literal. Oversized kept returning, something I’ve been leaning into for years without consciously naming it. Then there were subtler threads: military references, rock influences, a kind of hardness at the edge, maybe edgy fits there. High-waisted silhouettes matter too, not aesthetically but structurally; they’re what make me feel held in my body.
What this showed me wasn’t clarity, but complexity. Three words weren’t enough…. not yet anyway. I already work with a colour palette system, and this felt less like a solution and more like another layer to sit alongside my existing mood boards. A prompt rather than a rulebook. It made it obvious that refining personal style isn’t something you shortcut with a formula. It needs time, reflection, and probably a bit of discomfort before it settles.
Style vs Mood
Meanwhile, my mood had shifted entirely.
This is also part of the problem, my style isn’t fixed, because my moods aren’t. Some days I feel girly and soft and want something pretty to match that energy. Other days I feel grown-up and grounded and want to look sophisticated, sharp, even a little untouchable. These shifts aren’t random; they’re emotional, situational, hormonal, seasonal. And they matter.
If I’m serious about building a sustainable wardrobe, I can’t ignore this. I need to study my moods as much as my silhouettes, understand how they move, how long they last, and what they actually ask for. Otherwise, I’ll keep buying for a version of myself that only exists for a moment. The challenge is learning how to dress for fluctuation. Creating a wardrobe that can stretch across moods, personal style, and sustainability goals without constantly needing to be added to. I didn’t want mysterious or witchy. I wanted power dressing. I wanted a suit.
Day after day, I searched Vinted for a royal blue suit in a size 14, knowing I couldn’t risk the unpredictability of a size 12. I found plenty of beautiful suits, just not in my size. And the more I searched, the more I questioned myself: when will I ever wear this again? Especially when royal blue isn’t even one of my personal colours.
I found it fascinating that royal blue was so hard to source second-hand, especially with cobalt blue predicted as a 2026 trend. I couldn’t help wondering if my friend was accidentally ahead of the curve. Though I’m pretty sure she chose the colour simply because it’s her mother’s favourite.
Royal blue is emerging, just not fully there yet. And although people might argue that royal and cobalt are different, I know that in this moment, that distinction would be lost.
Much like the wedding outfit dilemma, this became another time-consuming, emotionally draining loop.
Eventually, I decided to go black, with blue accessories. But even as blue shoes sat in my basket, my new sustainable mindset kicked in: When will you wear these again?
So my next step is borrowing. Asking around. Seeing what blue already exists within my community. And if all else fails, I have my two Vinted dresses to fall back on.
Not perfect. Not pure. But honest. And maybe that’s what sustainable dressing actually looks like in real life.