I started a blog in 2015 because writing literary fiction can take me to some dark places. This is a fun creative outlet where I could write about lighter topics such as fashion, movies, travel, and that sort of thing. Even as I learned about the human and environmental costs behind fast fashion, I wanted to approach it from a positive angle. I’ve never liked guilt-driven messaging, so instead of being preachy, I focused on making sustainability accessible, highlighting fashion brands that use ethical manufacturing and more sustainable practices.

At the time, fast fashion had already dominated the market, and I was getting increasingly turned off by the pace of overconsumption and the poor quality of clothing. I connected with other bloggers, influencers, and journalists who were asking similar questions about how to do better, and we learned from each other while championing smaller ethical brands. It felt like we were part of something meaningful, even if it was still niche.

Ten years later, the ethical fashion industry has changed. And so have I.

Sustainability vs. Social Media

Around 2016-2017, I was financially stable enough to invest in a better wardrobe, so it was exciting to build it from sustainable brands. While a few larger, venture-backed companies like Everlane were bringing ideas like transparency into the mainstream, the space was still largely driven by smaller labels and independent designers who were idealistic and working with deadstock fabrics, prioritizing natural fibers, and being as open as possible with their supply chains.

Eco-fashion was often associated with shapeless silhouettes and scratchy hemp, and I wanted to show that it could be both conscious and stylish. I got dangerously close to becoming a fashion blogger, dipping into micro-influencer territory, as I posted outfit photos on Instagram and took on the occasional sponsored post. Brands would regularly offer to gift me pieces in exchange for coverage, but I was always careful about what I said yes to. Some weren’t truly ethical or sustainable and were simply jumping on the bandwagon, and I didn’t want to promote what I didn’t believe in. I was also a minimalist at heart and didn’t want to end up buried in things.

I never fully leaned into it because it felt like being a sustainable fashion blogger was a bit of a paradox. I couldn’t really promote a sustainable wardrobe if I were always wearing new clothes, but having a visual online presence came with pressure to constantly show something new.

That’s just the nature of social media, and since then, it has only intensified. People want those dopamine hits of novelty and excitement. Social media now rewards content that is fast and shoppable, while more thoughtful conversations around sustainability have become deprioritized. A lot of the smaller brands that used to show up in the algorithm organically are being priced out, forced to compete for attention in a system that increasingly favors those who can afford to pay for it.

Sustainable fashion, in many ways, grew through social media in the first place, with movements like #WhoMadeMyClothes bringing awareness to issues of transparency and labor. The same platforms that once helped build awareness are now structured around selling. Social media companies, after all, are businesses, and over time they’ve increasingly merged with e-commerce, designing feeds to keep people scrolling, engaging, and shopping. Sustainable fashion, which asks people to slow down and buy less, fits awkwardly into that model.

In many cases, even conversations around “sustainable fashion” are still shaped by large fast fashion brands like H&M, which have the resources to control the narrative. Haul culture is still very much alive, especially on platforms like TikTok. And while some fast fashion retailers like Forever 21 have struggled or restructured, it hasn’t disappeared but largely shifted online, with companies like Shein accelerating the model even faster with clothes that are even poorer in quality.

When Sustainable Brands Operate Like Fast Fashion Brands

A number of the ethical fashion brands from that era have ceased operations or are still struggling to survive. Others shifted to different industries. Amour Vert is now a fashion and lifestyle blog, Rachel Pally seems to be focused on ceramics now, and I recently heard that sustainable sneaker brand Allbirds is pivoting to AI. Seriously.

All of this points to the same thing: it’s hard out there. Sustainable fashion is more expensive to do well. Ethical labor, quality materials, and smaller production all cost more. Many of these brands operate with tighter margins and carry the added burden of educating consumers, all while trying to stay afloat.

For some of the bigger names that once championed sustainability, things changed for the worse. Reformation and Sézane both seem to be operating on a frequent release cycle closer to fast fashion. As both brands scale, there has been a growing chorus of customer complaints online about declining quality.

Lisa Says Gah positions itself as ethical and LA-designed and produced, but research by a sustainable fashion YouTuber has raised questions about whether some of its imported pieces are being manufactured in the same overseas factories as fast fashion brands like Fashion Nova.

Everlane built its identity around “radical transparency,” breaking down the cost of each item by materials, labor, transport, tariffs, and markup. I can no longer find that information on their product pages.

And these are just a few examples.

Scaling is a major challenge for ethical brands looking to expand. The closer they get to scaling, the more they run into the same pressures as the broader fashion industry. Brands either remain small and niche, or they grow and begin to operate in the same system they were originally trying to challenge.

Fortunately, not all ethical brands have failed or are transitioning to fast fashion models. Some are still doing well, but they tend to follow a different playbook. Brands like Patagonia and Eileen Fisher never relied heavily on trends, which has made them more resilient over time. Smaller brands like Christy Dawn, MATE the Label, and Kotn continue to operate more thoughtfully, often at a more limited scale. Kotn, for example, has leaned further into community and storytelling as part of its brand and is taking a step-by-step approach to growth.

The Decline of Quality and the Missing Middle

Shopping for clothes these days, whether from sustainable brands or not, feels increasingly hit or miss, currently leaning heavily toward miss. Some straight-up feel scammy.

I'm not spending $300 on a polyester skirt or $500 on a "sustainable" viscose dress that requires dry cleaning (Viscose is a semi-synthetic fabric made from wood pulp, and it can shrink if washed improperly, especially in hot water.) Recently at Holt Renfrew, I came across a dress from an ethical brand that was at least made from cotton, but the fabric was paper-thin. This unlined dress was $700.

Luxury fashion has always had inflated pricing, but it’s aimed at a very different customer. (It's speculated that Jeff Bezos wants to get into luxury fashion because the margins are so high.) People who are willing to spend $4,000 on a polyester windbreaker or $10,000+ on a bag aren’t shopping with the same constraints as the average person trying to build a functional wardrobe.

I’ve been hearing more and more criticism that sustainable fashion is becoming something only the wealthy can afford. Brands that were once relatively accessible have steadily raised their prices over the years, whether due to rising costs and tariffs, pressure from investors, or simply the reality of charging what they need to stay profitable.

It often feels like the mainstream options are either $10 or $1,000; you’re either shopping fast fashion or paying luxury prices. What’s missing is the middle.

Paying $300 for a well-made dress might already feel like a stretch for someone used to fast fashion pricing. At $700 or more, it becomes out of reach. And again, the quality might not even be consistent or justify the price anymore.

Like it or not, low prices, constant novelty, and rapid trend cycles have reshaped what people expect clothing to cost. So even when better options exist, they can feel expensive by comparison.

So… Is Ethical Fashion Dead?

Ethical fashion gained real traction online in the mid to late 2010s, fueled by social media, documentaries, and movements like Fashion Revolution. In the early 2020s, that momentum started to lose steam. It didn’t disappear, but I think a lot of people are tired. I know I am.

But to answer my original question, is ethical fashion dead?

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Not exactly, but the dream that it could become mainstream, accessible, and widely adopted seems less realistic.

As mentioned, scaling ethical production can be a major challenge, especially when private equity is involved and profitability becomes the priority. This pressure can lead to faster production cycles, higher prices, or compromises that start to chip away at the original values.

The underlying system hasn’t changed all that much. Most mainstream fashion brands are still built on volume. They may use sustainability language or release “conscious” collections, but the core model is still about producing more, selling more, and moving inventory quickly. That’s where the tension shows up, and where greenwashing often begins.

At the same time, consumers are more informed than ever. Thrifting and shopping vintage and secondhand have gone mainstream. Resale platforms like Depop, Poshmark, ThredUp, and The RealReal are popular, but many have struggled to turn a profit. Even rental platforms like Rent the Runway have yet to prove to be consistently profitable, despite years of growth and funding.

Buying secondhand, which feels like the obvious solution, isn’t that simple. There’s a bit of a dirty secret behind the resale boom. Secondhand fashion is often subsidized by the sale of new clothing. For example, the Swedish resale site Sellpy expanded into new markets with support from H&M, whose core business is still selling large volumes of new clothing.

For-profit secondhand shops have also struggled to survive. Every item needs to be sorted, cleaned, and, if sold online, shipped, which makes the model expensive to run. An oversupply of donated clothing, much of it from fast fashion brands, complicates things further, since a significant portion is low quality and difficult to resell.

Even as resale grows, brands are still producing more clothing than ever. In some cases, resale can even encourage more consumption, because people feel they can simply resell what they no longer want. So while secondhand extends the life of some garments, it doesn’t replace fast fashion. The underlying issue is how much we produce and consume in the first place.

Good Riddance! So What's the Solution?

The solution has always been the same. Simply put, the most sustainable way to dress is still to buy less and buy better.

You don’t have to do it perfectly. I’ve started sewing some of my own clothes, and even then, the fabric and thread may still come from exploitative systems. There’s no easy way to opt out entirely. But stepping away from mindless consumption already makes a meaningful difference.

Rethinking What Sustainability Actually Means

Alongside the rise of secondhand, vintage, and thrift flipping, people are becoming more educated about clothing quality. Creators like @itsolgav and @TwinBrett are breaking down how to spot well-made garments, from fabric to construction, as well as dispensing some fashion history. Once you start engaging with this kind of content, it trains the algorithm to show you similar content.

Sustainability is now less about strict rules and more about understanding quality and longevity. A simple way to approach this is to ask yourself one question when you come across a piece of clothing you are considering buying: Can you actually see yourself wearing it five years from now? That question forces you to look past trends and marketing to focus on quality and personal taste.

Whether you're thrifting or buying new, fabric quality is usually the first filter. Early ethical fashion spaces were rigid about natural fibers like cotton, linen, silk, and wool, and treated synthetics as inherently bad.

But synthetic fabrics do have their place, especially in outerwear, swimwear, activewear, and lingerie. I’ve tried natural fiber alternatives to these pieces, and they often don’t perform as well. A quality synthetic garment that lasts ten years is more sustainable than a natural fiber piece that stretches out, underperforms, or fails to protect you from the elements. High-quality polyester, particularly in vintage clothing, holds up far better than much of the modern natural fiber clothing available today.

What about "sustainable" fabrics? I've mentioned my disdain for viscose, popular in the sustainable fashion space. It’s heavily processed, making it semi-synthetic, and it can shrink in the wash, which makes it frustrating and high-maintenance. But even here, quality varies widely. Some viscose is thin, flimsy, and tears easily, while higher-quality versions are thick and long-lasting, though quality viscose will cost you.

Construction is also important to learn. Since I’ve started sewing, I’ve become more aware of stitching methods and overall garment construction. You start to see why some pieces hold up for years while others fall apart after a few wears. Even learning some basic hand sewing skills can go a long way in mending garments and extending their life.

Good Brands Still Exist

They’re out there!

Plenty of ethical brands are still operating, and new ones continue to emerge. I do my best to regularly update my master lists of 200+ ethical US and Canadian brands. Even if not every brand is perfectly sustainable, many are still a step up from mainstream fashion. Good On You also has a helpful directory with ratings to check which brands are worth supporting and which ones are not.

At the end of the day, I want clothes that are well-designed, well-made, easy to wear, and easy to care for. I don’t want to spend my time handwashing fabrics or going to the dry cleaners.

When I do buy new, I like to support local designers who operate on a smaller scale. These are often brands where the designer is also the marketer, model, and the customer service team. They’re close to the production process, sometimes even making the clothes themselves. With lower overhead and less pressure to scale quickly or maximize profits, the prices can be surprisingly reasonable for the quality.

They can be harder to find now, especially on social media, so you may need to train your algorithm to surface these independent brands. But they often show up at local markets and pop-ups, where you can actually see and feel the clothes in person.

Where I Stand Now with Fashion

About five years ago, my foundational wardrobe felt pretty solid. There are still small gaps, like cute swim and resortwear, but I can fill them slowly over time.

If you see me, I’m usually wearing the same things. I’m at the gym four times a week, so I’m often in athletic wear. Otherwise, it’s a white T-shirt, jeans, and one of the cardigans my mom made. In the summer, it’s mostly sundresses. It’s simple, and I don’t have to spend mental energy deciding what to wear.

Around the same time my wardrobe settled, I started to lose interest in fashion blogging. I don't post pictures of outfits or even very much of myself on social media anymore. Mainly because I got sick of myself. Looking at pictures of myself, taking pictures of myself, asking friends to take pictures of me, figuring out how to pose in ways that were not awkward, what to do with my hands, how best to rearrange my face. Maybe it’s also just getting older and having less desire to peacock.

So while I may be bored with fashion and its never-ending trends and marketing cycles, I'm not bored with personal style. It works for my life instead of something performative. Comfort takes priority, especially after getting used to athletic wear. I won’t wear anything I can’t move in, or anything that feels scratchy or stifling.

Letting Go of the Closet Fantasy

Over the past year, I’ve been doing a massive closet cleanout. No one really tells you this, but even if you invest in high-quality pieces meant to last a lifetime, you can still get bored with some of them. That said, I had a good run with most of my clothes, wearing them for over seven years. The upside of buying better is that there’s often resale value. I’ve even made a profit on some pieces, which helps offset the losses of clothing I've worn into the ground. When I think about cost per wear, I still come out ahead.

I've let go of anything that didn’t fit my lifestyle: most of my dry-clean-only pieces, delicate silk items that required too much maintenance, uncomfortable clothes, and special occasion dresses that just sat there taking up space.

There’s a lifestyle gap between everyday people and celebrities/influencers. We don’t need to dress like them. They’re professionally styled, often loaned or gifted clothing, and photographed for content, campaigns, and events. It’s part of their job to constantly wear new outfits.

And even they don’t live that way in practice. Many have admitted they rotate through a very small portion of their massive wardrobes. The rest of their closets act more like an archive. They also end up selling a lot of their stuff. Kardashian Kloset, anyone?

Stepping out of the mindset that you need to own a lot of things is liberating. If I ever need something specific, like a dress for a wedding or other special occasions, I’d probably just rent it. These days, I only shop to replace worn pieces or fill the gaps in my wardrobe.

Upcycling and Making My Own Clothes

Have you ever looked at an overpriced piece of clothing and thought, I could make this myself? Or found something you liked, only to check the fabric composition and see polyester, viscose, or rayon?

As one sewing YouTuber put it, you can’t afford not to sew in this economy.

I learned how to use a sewing machine in high school and recently took a class as a refresher. I haven’t invested in a professional sewing machine yet, but I dug up a tiny one I bought for $15 at a yard sale ages ago that only does a straight stitch. It looks like a toy, but it works. So far, I’ve used it to mend a ripped duvet cover, make scrunchies, tailor a thrifted velvet top, and fix the elastic on an old skirt. I also have free access to a professional sewing machine and serger at the library if I ever need them.

Knowing how to sew opens up more possibilities. No longer do I have to settle for the low-quality garbage that's currently on the fashion market. I’ve been searching in vain for a simple floral skirt made from cotton instead of polyester or cheap viscose. But I’m confident I can just buy the fabric and make it myself now. At the very least, I can make a sarong, which is basically a piece of fabric.

These days, making my own clothes is the part of fashion I’m most excited about. I’m still learning, so the process can be slow and sometimes frustrating. When I make mistakes, I have to rip the seams and start over. But when the piece finally comes together, it’s very satisfying.

I have a few projects in mind that I want to execute. Who knows, maybe I'll show off what I make in the style section and get back into fashion blogging in a new way.