Yes, I Thrift. No, That Doesn’t Make Me Better.

People like to put thrifting on a pedestal. It’s cheap, it’s sustainable, it’s “better” than fast fashion. But here’s the truth: I thrift, and it doesn’t make me better. I still get hooked on bargains I don’t need. I still chase aesthetics that never stick. And just like everyone else, I’ve donated bags of clothes only to fill the space again.

Volunteering in a charity shop made this painfully obvious. The place had its own rhythm, the soft thud of donation bags hitting the back room floor, the faint musty smell of clothes that had sat too long in a sack, the clatter of mismatched hangers sliding down rails. Behind the romantic idea of second-hand shopping, I saw the real story of fashion: endless donations, racks stuffed with “must-haves” already forgotten, and the reminder that even charity shops sit inside the same consumer culture we claim to resist.

Style doesn't a big budget but time and patience

Yes, you can look great without spending much, but only if you’re patient. Unlike high street stores with neat, identical stacks, charity shops are chaotic. You run your hand over rails and feel every texture: itchy wool, flimsy polyester, denim that’s softened after years of wear. Finding something that fits isn’t instant. If you’re outside the “easy fit” S-M-L range, the hunt is even harder.

I still remember that time I got an unexpected interview and needed a blazer within 24 hours, I went straight to M&S because I knew they would have something for me, reliable, fast, available in every size. It wasn’t about self-expression, it was about survival: I needed to look the part ASAP.

That’s the opposite of how thrifting works. In a charity shop, you run your hand across racks of random fabrics, half the sizes are wrong, and most things you try won’t fit. It’s luck, patience, and timing. If you’re shopping in a rush, you’ll leave frustrated. But if you build slowly, piece by piece, you’ll end up with a wardrobe that actually feels like you.

Style, I realised, isn’t bought in one panic purchase. It’s built over time, just like trust in a brand like M&S.

We don't have a shortage of clothes

The backroom of the charity shop was nothing glamorous. Black bin bags piled high, some half-open, spilling dresses, jumpers, and trousers onto the floor and sometimes I don't even treat them like clothes even. You’d untie one bag and out came clothes that still smelled of fabric softener, another with perfume lingering on collars, another with brand-new items still carrying tags. The sheer volume was overwhelming, it felt like watching fast fashion’s leftovers in real time.

It made me pause every time I opened my own wardrobe. So many of these pieces had once been my “must-haves,” things people were convinced they couldn’t live without. Months later, they ended up in a bin bag.

That’s when it hit me: we don’t have a shortage of clothes. What we have is too much, and every garment carries a story that someone else decided to stop telling.

Value is perception, not price tag

I once found what I thought was the perfect bargain: a Zara leather jacket for £28. It felt heavy, warm, like armour, the kind of piece that instantly makes you look more put-together. I grabbed it without thinking twice. But when I got home and looked properly, I noticed the back under the collar was flaking, the leather peeling away in tiny strips.

That’s when it hit me: value isn’t about material or durability. It’s about perception. Zara sells me an image, not quality. And I fell for it, even second-hand.

Branding works like that. We’re not paying for the product. We’re paying for the story we tell ourselves when we wear it.

Clothes carry stories

Sorting donations, I’d come across perfume still lingering on a blouse, lipstick faintly stained into a collar, the ghost of someone else’s life stitched into every seam. A jacket once worn to interviews. A coat that probably traveled to more countries that I ever could. A dress that belonged to a wedding. Sometimes people donated because clothes no longer fit, but often it felt like letting go of memories.

I learned that when my partner nagged me to donate a pair of jeans I’d owned for at least 8 years. They were nothing special, black, plain, slightly ripped, stains that wouldn’t wash out. But they were my work jeans, stolen from my mum’s wardrobe, and I found it almost impossible to drop them into the donation box I walked past every day.

Those jeans had carried me through 2 draining hospitality jobs in the UK. They absorbed drinks spilled on the floor and on me. They were what I collapsed in after 8-hour shifts. They were the jeans that funded my first holiday in Europe, and the same ones I wore travelling to 5 different countries. They were washed out, yes, but somehow softer and more comfortable with every year.

Letting go wasn’t hard because of the fabric, it was hard because of the life they’d carried.

Fashion is a need as well

The best part was knowing every sale helped the charity support people in need. Hearing the till ring wasn’t just about a purchase, it was about impact. I still remember that shift when I served a lady who bought 200 quid worth of clothes to send home to Nigeria. From our short conversation, I learn that prices are higher there because of inflation so sending bags of Nike and Adidas shoes from abroad is actually cheaper than buying new.

And for me, it was survival too. I arrived in the UK with two suitcases. I didn't have room for a full wardrobe and everything seems so expensive. I still remember buying my first jumper, Primark, heavy wool, slightly too big, but warm enough to get me through a biting British winter. That purchase didn't just save me money, it gave me comfort when I felt most out of place.

But here’s the uncomfortable truth: thrifting doesn’t make me morally better. It doesn’t free me from the cycle. I still get hooked on the thrill of the bargain, the rush of finding something that feels like treasure in a cluttered rail. I’ve built wardrobes around aesthetics that didn’t last. And yes, I donate frequently, but that’s often just to clear space for the next round of purchases.

Buy. Declutter. Donate. Repeat.

It’s the same wheel of consumerism, second-hand just spins a little slower.

And brands know this. They’ve built entire strategies around our guilt and our desire. They know we’ll justify every purchase as “better” if it’s cheap, used, or framed as sustainable. They know even people like me, who’ve seen the backroom piles, smelled the must of excess, and know the cycle by heart will still fall for a £6 shirt I don’t need.

So no, thrifting doesn’t make me better. It just makes me honest about the fact that I’m still a consumer in a world built to keep us consuming.