Do we finally realize we have a clothing (consumption) problem?
On textile recycling, literal clothing mountains, and consuming less
This past week, I witnessed a fascinating exchange in the comments section of a well-known blog. The post itself was sponsored by Quince, the direct-to-consumer fashion line that’s making waves for its dubious sustainability claims. In a comments section that is typically one of the most supportive on the Internet, readers were in a virtual uproar about the partnership, noting that Quince’s comparably low costs were a sure-fire sign of labor exploitation and questionable quality that would result in excess waste.
But for me, the story really isn’t about Quince (although, to be clear, I’d still rather someone buy from Quince than Shein or Temu). What was remarkable about this exchange was that so many people seemed to be in agreement, not only that there is a problem, but also that less consumption is the key to fix it.
The average American now generates 82 pounds of textile waste every year. 82 pounds, to be clear, is the equivalent of throwing away multiple small children (please don’t do this).
But of course, it’s only the careless among us who would dump our clothing unceremoniously into the trash. The rest of us are donating our clothing— if the statistics are to be believed, after only 7 wears— like responsible global citizens, right? Never mind that clothing donation comes with its own host of problems. While your friend or neighbor might legitimately appreciate your toddler’s hand-me-downs, your local charity shop is probably drowning in fast fashion castoffs. While some of these castoffs will indeed be re-sold locally, others will be down-cycled into carpeting or insulation, and still others will make their way to other parts of the world. After emitting truly absurd amounts of carbon in transit, these clothes will arrive at a final destination such as Ghana or Chile, where they will wreck local clothing markets and maybe even catch deserts on fire.
I don’t feel terribly reassured by clothing recycling, either. Sure, I purchase Take-Back Bags to recycle clothing damaged beyond reasonable repair (you can also use TerraCycle’s free clothing recycling for children’s items). This seems, to me, like the bare minimum I can do as a consumer of items that are inevitably harming the planet, no matter my good intentions. But also? It feels a little bit obnoxious, like I’m an entitled consumer who throws money at a problem in lieu of actually solving it. My take-back bag report card tells me my family has saved 30 pounds of textile waste from landfill this year. This is the equivalent, apparently, of 12 skateboards or two bowling bowls. Maybe I’m supposed to cheer at this, give myself a little pat on the back? The recycling platform allows you to redeem the money you spent on take-back bags for retailer coupons and gift cards though, so I suspect all they really want is for me to go shopping again.
Maybe this is being a bit hard on myself. I do, after all, want to solve the problem. I purchase clothing— for small, capsule wardrobes (for perspective, I rotate through the same 5 shirts every week)— secondhand or from ethical/ sustainability minded retailers. But when I’m recycling my fourth hole-ridden t-shirt in as many months, I recognize just how difficult a problem this is, in some ways, to solve.
The landscape for consumers trying to find high-quality, sustainable items can be tricky to navigate. As someone who is constantly engaged in sustainability issues— and as a consumer myself— I would still be personally loathe to recommend many sustainable clothing brands for adults. Some brands that I once adored, like Pact, have seen precipitous drops in quality, at least in my personal experience. Others don’t offer extended sizes or something as basic as a v-neck t-shirt (my everyday staple). Thankfully for all of us, organizations like Good On You and EcoCult have taken the initiative to rate clothing brands based on their care for people, planet, and animals— making it a little easier to wade through the lackadaisical use of sustainability claims by brands.
But for the overwhelming majority of people, I’m not so sure that this is the problem. In fact, I’m not even sure that the problem is awareness. Sure, the average consumer may not be aware that there are literal mountains of clothing piling up across the globe, but surely people don’t actually believe that it’s a totally fine practice to dispose of clothing you wear twice? Surely someone else feels the teeniest bit of panic at the realization that an eBay search for the term J. Crew alone returns more than 530,000 results?
To be clear, I don’t think that shaming people for their buying habits is the answer (and even if it were, I doubt I’d be any good at it). And it’s clear that bogging people down with overwhelming statistics and heartbreaking images isn’t working, either.
So what’s the path forward? Of course, if you have a crystal ball with all the answers, please let me know (I would definitely give you the platform for a guest post!). But a few things come to mind:
We live in an economic system that relies on consuming— and, really, promoting consuming.
This week, over at
, Laura observed how “the lines between journalism and marketing have often gotten whisper thin.” Indeed, any time we aren’t directly paying for content, we are asking individual writers, bloggers/podcasters, or newsrooms to financially support themselves. And in the absence of a trust fund or secret mega-donor? That means being beholden to advertising or a product sponsorship somewhere. I don’t think this excuses the multi-billion dollar advertising system, or gives journalists a free pass to start promoting Shein hauls. But it’s important to recognize that moving away from a system that is constantly pushing us to buy more t-shirts and trinkets may require us to financially support the creators we benefit from.I’m not remotely worried about catastrophic economic collapse because we all wake up and decide to stop shopping. But it is worth noting that the same social media models that once helped amplify small businesses can also crush them with a simple algorithm change. While I don’t have sympathy for the Shein’s or Quince’s of the world, I have plenty of sympathy for the small businesses who have become dependent on the influencer and social media model for any traction. Try supporting them with your dollars, too.
Our dollars cast a vote. Every time.
To put it bluntly, I don’t have any control over brands when they decide to destroy thousands of pounds of unsold clothing. I can’t unilaterally demand that companies stop polluting waterways or pay workers a living wage (although I can certainly support legislation to that effect).
But you know what I can do? I can refuse to give my dollars to a company that I believe is engaging in unethical practices. If I buy from a brand that slashes through clothing before unceremoniously depositing it in the dumpster, I’m implicitly giving my ‘okay’ to these wasteful practices. Not every purchase we make will check every box: Fair trade, organic materials, minimizes textile waste, offsets carbon emissions, uses non-toxic dyes. The bar for a ‘perfect’ company is high, and not every purchase we make will check every box— but we can certainly look for companies that check more of these boxes than not.
My dollars cast a vote in the secondhand market, too. Especially for children’s clothing, where items are so quickly outgrown, buying sustainable items from consignment or secondhand shops online (Poshmark, Mercari, Kidizen, ManyMoons, etc.) reduces clothing waste— and encourages others to continue shopping from more sustainable brands (the cost savings on my end don’t hurt, either).
The biggest change we can make is to shop more intentionally— and less.
Sure, suggesting that we all shop less has a pretty selfish ulterior motive of, you know, saving the planet. But I’m incredibly heartened by the rise of the intentional consumption conversation into the mainstream. Even the de-influencing and anti-haul rhetoric on TikTok (although I’m not personally on TikTok to witness it) is motivating, although there’s a slightly concerning trend of promoting alternative beauty or clothing items, rather than the viral one, under the guise of #deinfluencing.
But shopping less won’t just save the planet (or, at least, help). A more streamlined wardrobe is easier to wake up to, and getting dressed is a breeze with only a handful of well-fitting items. If you are looking for help paring down your wardrobe, Courtney Carver’s Project 333 Challenge can be a great place to start. Try keeping just your favorites of each thing— a favorite grey cardigan, instead of 20 pilling sweaters, for example— and shopping your closet before shopping the outlet mall. Also, lest you think that all minimalist wardrobes prefer beige, please know that I own absolutely nothing beige and am still a proud, card-carrying member of the top-secret minimalist wardrobe club.
For kids? A smaller wardrobe is an absolute sanity saver. With only a handful of items in their drawers, I don’t lose my children under a pile of textiles every laundry day, and they since they legitimately like everything in their closets, they are rarely grumpy about what they are wearing. I’ll be trying out what I’m calling the 4x4x4 wardrobe with kiddo #3, as well. In this grand experiment, baby boy will have 4 onesies, 4 pants, and 4 sleepers in each size. To be clear, this still amounts to a staggering amount of clothing for the first year of life— but it’s roughly half of what I had for my girls at the same age. On the off chance you are as deeply invested in the outcome of this experiment as I am, I’ll be sure to write about it (assuming, of course, that it’s a rousing success).
All the people who tell you a smaller wardrobe means less laundry, though? I’m not so sure about that.