Fashion production is estimated to comprise 10% of total global carbon emissions, and I’m guilty of participating as much as anyone.

So I set myself a challenge last year: a whole 12 months without buying new clothes, with – full disclosure – a couple of minor exceptions: underwear, swimwear and shoes (of which I bought two very necessary pairs). Secondhand would be allowed.

Once I’d declared to family and friends, with a smug air of eco-consciousness, of my plans, of course there was no backing out.

Here’s what my year of vintage shopping and avoiding the high street taught me.

I bought less secondhand than I thought

Initially I thought I might replace buying new with simply buying the same amount from online marketplaces like Vinted. Sure, I picked up a couple of charity shop jumpers in my first month (only one of which I regularly wear) but I soon became pickier.

In all honesty, buying secondhand didn’t give me that same rush as buying new – perhaps it was the allure of strolling through a perfectly organised store where clothes are beautifully presented. The novelty of newness, of course, depletes after the first wear though – still, it’s addictive.

In reality I only bought a handful of secondhand clothes in 12 months; I found a lacy Reiss top for £17 from a Shelter charity shop and a retro bomber jacket in a small men’s size from London secondhand chain Traid, which I love. The most expensive item was a cropped Sandro jacket in navy (£88 from Good, an upmarket line of vintage shops in London, RRP over £400).

I *do* have clothes to wear

You’ve probably uttered the phase, “I have nothing to wear”, while staring at a wardrobe packed with clothes too. It turns out, when you have to look, there are definitely options, even if they aren’t this season’s fashion.

For a hen weekend in Marbella, I rediscovered some barely-worn holiday outfits from Warehouse that were at least five years old, and surprisingly, felt great in them. I wore the same sparkly festive outfit to the same annual festive event as in 2022, and no one, apart from me, remembered it.

Friends and family might have some gems

My mum announced she has some ‘vintage’ clothes I might like. I’m not sure the Nineties count as vintage yet, but I discover a pair of high-waisted mocha coloured jeans, a leopard print midi dress and a black floor-length gown, all in perfect condition and unworn for 25 years. I’ve worn the jeans to death since and sported the leopard print dress at Christmas.

It feels nice to declare, “They’re my mum’s from the Nineties!”, when I receive a compliment on them. That dopamine hit I used to get from putting on a brand-new outfit fresh from a shop, or opening a fast-fashion delivery package has been replaced by a new, warmer and longer-lasting sense of feel-good, that some of my clothes have a history, a second life, and that I’m not contributing to the fashion industry’s huge environmental impact.

I reevaluated why I spend on clothes

Over the months, I started to wonder how many of the clothes I was previously buying were out of need, or even real desire. My ‘triggers’ for overbuying on fashion were usually, on reflection, upcoming events; having a fresh outfit for a night out, a brand-new look for a wedding, worrying about not having the right holiday wardrobe.

But why did I need new outfits for these occasions? Was it the newness that was alluring? Or did it all boil down to the pressure put on women to look their best? I began to realise I’d been placing far too much value in what I was wearing, and its link to how I felt about myself.

“Fashion often influences self-perception in both men and women because clothing can serve as a form of self-expression, reflecting personal style and identity,” explains psychologist Ravi Gill. “Societal norms, media, and cultural expectations contribute to the significance of fashion in shaping how individuals, especially women, perceive themselves.

“The desire to conform to beauty standards or express individuality through clothing can impact self-esteem and confidence.” Perhaps I was using clothes for, as Gill puts it, an “external stimuli to provide a sense of validation” – this year, I’d have to get that from elsewhere, ideally internally.

Renting fashion is magic

The first ‘problem’ I really encountered was my brother’s wedding. For such a significant and formal occasion, I couldn’t have imagined not buying a new frock. I couldn’t look back at family wedding pictures for years to come wearing a dress I didn’t love, could I?

Thankfully, the fashion rental sites like Hurr, By Rotation and Endless Wardrobe are big business now. I try out Hurr and discover amazing designer dresses for prices I can afford (if you can get over the fact you don’t get to keep them). I eye up a ruffled Needle & Thread floor-length gown in deep pink (RRP £480) convinced it would look amazing, but (good tip) after tracking it down new in a store to try it on, I discovered it didn’t suit me.

Thankfully, the future of rental may actually include shop-fronts, and Selfridges in London have a section of dresses to rent – complete with a changing room. I fall in love with a silk Sau Lee gown with oversized rose prints and book it for the wedding (£64 for four days, RRP £450 new) that fits perfectly. I get tons of compliments (“Thanks, it’s rented”) and I feel great in my designer frock, even if I do have to give it back on Monday, and avoid red wine all day like the plague.

For a friend’s wedding in the summer, I’m so confident I’ll find a rental dress I leave it to the last minute and pick up a Sabina Musayev gown (£74 for four days). The maid of honour comments that I’m nailing wedding dressing right now.

I wouldn’t rent for just any night out, but for a special occasion. Renting means I’m able to wear a beautiful designer dress for less than the price of buying a high-street, mass-produced garment, while feeling better about my environmental impact, too.

It has changed how I shop going forward

I had assumed I’d have an online shopping basket ready to hit ‘purchase’ immediately after a year was up, or be storming to the shops at the first possible opportunity. But, as I browsed some sale rails in the first week, I felt strange even being in there – having avoided this exact situation for so long.

I’m not about to promise never to succumb to an Instagram advert for a new clothing brand or spend on something shiny and new ever again, but those 365 days fundamentally changed my attitude, and need, to shop new. Now I think more deeply about the purchases I make and the environmental impact it has, and check Vinted instead. And my bank balance is enjoying it too.