7 “sustainable” fashion trends that feel tone-deaf to working-class consumers

I still remember watching a popular influencer talk about her “sustainable wardrobe.”

She stood in front of a color-coordinated rack of linen shirts, handmade loafers, and a $450 tote bag, talking about how she “invests in quality” because it’s better for the planet.

And I remember thinking: that tote bag costs more than my rent back in Malaysia when I was growing up.

The irony is, sustainability in fashion was supposed to be about saving the planet. But somewhere along the way, it turned into a new aesthetic, one that quietly excludes the people who can’t afford to play by those rules.

I’m not against sustainability. I care deeply about mindful consumption.

But when the conversation ignores class and accessibility, it stops being sustainable. It just becomes performative.

Let’s talk about the so-called “sustainable” trends that feel tone-deaf to those who don’t have disposable income to burn.

1. “Buy less, but buy better”

It’s a phrase we’ve all heard. The idea is simple: buy fewer things, but make sure they’re high-quality and long-lasting.

The problem? “Better” often means “expensive.”

A simple white shirt from an “eco-conscious” brand can cost $180. A pair of “ethically made” jeans? $250. And that’s just one item.

Working-class people already buy less, not because they’re trying to be sustainable, but because they have to. There’s no moral victory in wearing the same outfit multiple times when you don’t have the privilege of choice.

The truth is, sustainability looks different depending on your income bracket.

For some, it’s about choosing organic cotton.

For others, it’s about making one pair of shoes last three years.

And both deserve respect.

As journalist and author Tansy Hoskins points out in Stitched Up: The Anti‑Capitalist Book of Fashion, “Products considered ‘ethical’ are often the most expensive on the market, so ethical consumption is unfortunately deeply class-based.”

When we forget that, we start blaming consumers for a problem that starts with the system, not their wallets.

2. Capsule wardrobes with designer basics

Minimalism sounds lovely in theory, own less, wear what you love, build a “capsule wardrobe.”

But when influencers show off their capsule collections, those “timeless essentials” usually come from brands like The Row or Reformation. One blazer costs more than most people’s entire monthly grocery budget.

I tried building a capsule wardrobe once.

I spent weeks comparing “sustainable” brands and realized that the prices didn’t make sense for someone like me. In the end, I built my capsule from Zara, thrift stores, and a few local boutiques. And you know what? It works.

The problem isn’t the idea, it’s the way it’s marketed.

Minimalism has been rebranded as a lifestyle of quiet luxury, when its original purpose was the opposite: to simplify, not to show status.

As fashion-sustainability expert Dr Patsy Perry points out: “Ethical fashion remains a niche market largely targeted at affluent consumers.”

And that’s the uncomfortable truth, sustainability as it’s sold today often mirrors privilege more than purpose.

3. Shaming fast fashion shoppers

This one hits close to home.

You’ve probably seen the social media posts that say things like, “If you buy from Shein, you don’t care about the planet.”

And while there are valid criticisms about fast fashion’s labor practices, those blanket statements miss the point entirely.

Many people turn to fast fashion because it’s accessible, not just financially, but also in terms of sizing and variety.

When you have limited options or need something for work, a wedding, or a last-minute event, Shein and Zara can be the only viable options.

We can acknowledge the environmental issues and still understand the socioeconomic realities behind them.

Instead of shaming individuals, we should be holding billion-dollar corporations accountable.

As long as the working class is left out of the sustainability narrative, the movement will keep failing the very people it claims to protect.

4. “Eco-luxury” brands

Here’s the thing: if your $700 “eco-friendly” dress comes in a limited edition box and ships from Italy, it’s not exactly saving the planet.

There’s a strange new intersection between sustainability and luxury.

Brands are using buzzwords like “conscious,” “circular,” and “carbon-neutral” to justify premium pricing, when, in reality, the focus is still on selling more.

I once walked into a boutique in Dubai that sold “sustainable resort wear.”

Each item was “handcrafted by artisans,” which sounded wonderful until I saw the price tag, AED 2,000 for a sundress.

It’s like sustainability has become another way to sell exclusivity.

If you can afford it, you’re seen as enlightened. If you can’t, you’re part of the problem.

But true sustainability shouldn’t be a flex. It should be a collective effort, not a class signifier.

As industry analysis from Vogue Business noted, “Luxury brands often benefit from the assumption that they are, by default, more sustainable than mainstream fashion.”

That’s marketing, not progress.

5. Upcycling, but make it aesthetic

I grew up watching my mother stitch torn clothes and repurpose old fabric into pillow covers or cleaning rags.

We didn’t call it “upcycling.” We just called it making do.

Now, I see influencers selling “upcycled” patchwork jeans for $250, or DIY denim jackets that cost more than a month’s worth of groceries in some countries.

It’s funny, the same survival habits once associated with poverty are now being celebrated as trends, as long as they look “curated.”

In many cultures, reusing and repairing isn’t a movement; it’s tradition.

Communities in Southeast Asia, Africa, and South America have practiced sustainable living for generations out of necessity. But these voices rarely make it into the glossy sustainability narrative.

When brands profit off the aesthetic of resourcefulness without acknowledging its origins, it feels like cultural amnesia disguised as innovation.

6. Renting fashion for “sustainability”

On paper, renting clothes sounds brilliant, a way to look stylish without buying new pieces.

But when you look closer, the cracks start to show.

Rental platforms often target high-income customers, offering luxury items for temporary use. The fees add up quickly, and that’s before factoring in the hidden costs, shipping emissions, dry cleaning chemicals, and packaging waste.

In fact, a life-cycle assessment from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology Sustainable Supply Chain Lab found that clothing rental often has a higher carbon footprint per wear compared to traditional purchase-and-wear models because of transport, cleaning and delivery logistics.

And again, the idea doesn’t account for accessibility.

A working-class consumer isn’t renting a $1,200 dress for a dinner party, they’re trying to find something decent that won’t break the bank.

The irony is that the people who can afford to rent clothes are usually the ones who could afford to buy them in the first place.

7. The guilt marketing around “ethical” purchases

This one frustrates me the most.

We’re constantly being told that every purchase is a moral choice. That if you don’t buy ethically, you’re complicit in exploitation.

Of course, it’s important to make conscious choices where possible. But guilt isn’t a sustainable motivator, especially when it’s aimed at people with limited choices.

Ethical fashion shouldn’t feel like a luxury tax.

Many brands use guilt as a marketing strategy: “Buy this $300 organic cotton shirt to offset your carbon footprint.”

That kind of messaging alienates the very consumers who could be allies in the movement if only it felt more inclusive.

Real sustainability is about community, not consumption.

It’s about using what you have, sharing resources, supporting local artisans when you can, and being thoughtful with your money.

Not about being perfect, just intentional.

Final thoughts

I’ve learned that sustainability isn’t a single standard we all need to meet. It’s a spectrum.

When I see working-class families mending clothes, reusing containers, or buying secondhand, I see sustainability in its truest form, not as a trend, but as resilience.

Fashion’s sustainability movement has the right intentions but the wrong audience. It preaches to those who can afford to care, while overlooking those who’ve been living sustainably by default.

Before we talk about buying better, maybe we should talk about designing better systems.

Ones that don’t require privilege to participate.

Because sustainability shouldn’t be another form of status, it should be a shared responsibility.

And maybe the most sustainable thing we can do right now isn’t to buy a new “eco” collection, but to rethink what we value when we get dressed each day.