8 ways thrifting became cool only after wealthy people started doing it

There was a time when buying secondhand clothes came with a side of shame.

I still remember being a teenager in the ’90s and hearing classmates tease someone for wearing “hand-me-downs.” It wasn’t considered stylish or sustainable. It was seen as a last resort.

Fast forward a few decades, and suddenly, thrift stores are “vintage boutiques.” The same racks of random denim, quirky jackets, and retro tees that once symbolized struggle now represent individuality, sustainability, and trend awareness.

Don’t get me wrong, I love that people are embracing secondhand shopping. It’s better for the planet and often more creative than fast fashion. But it’s hard not to notice how thrifting only became cool once wealthy people started doing it.

Let’s unpack why that is, and what it says about the way society values things and people depending on who’s doing the valuing.

1) It went from necessity to aesthetic

For years, thrifting was simply about survival. People shopped secondhand because it was what they could afford. No one called it “curating” a wardrobe. It was just making do.

But once influencers, celebrities, and wealthy shoppers started calling it “vintage fashion,” the tone changed. Suddenly, it wasn’t about affordability anymore. It was about artistry, creativity, and self-expression.

The same plaid shirt that once signaled “couldn’t buy new” became “effortlessly grunge.” The same worn leather jacket became “heritage chic.”

It’s a pattern we see in many areas of life. Poor and working-class communities innovate out of necessity, and then those same ideas get rebranded as lifestyle trends once the wealthy adopt them. Minimalism, van life, backyard gardening, they all started as practical solutions and became fashionable only when privilege got involved.

When poor people do it, it’s survival. When rich people do it, it’s style.

2) Social media made it aspirational

Before Instagram, thrifting was private. You went with friends, dug through bins, and hoped for a gem. Now it’s content.

Social media turned secondhand shopping into a full-on aesthetic. Influencers post thrift hauls set to dreamy indie soundtracks, showing off $6 silk blouses and “vintage” cargo pants with perfect lighting and filters.

The narrative changed from “Look what I found because it’s all I can afford” to “Look how creative and eco-conscious I am.”

That subtle shift matters. When wealthier creators began showcasing their thrifted wardrobes online, it gave thrifting a new kind of social capital. Suddenly, the same act that once signaled struggle became a marker of taste, intelligence, and awareness.

And because social media thrives on imitation, that aesthetic trickled down fast, making secondhand shopping less about necessity and more about identity.

3) Prices skyrocketed once the rich got involved

Walk into a thrift store today and check the price tag on a pair of old Levi’s. You might be shocked.

Ten years ago, you could get them for $5. Now, they’re hanging under a spotlight for $40, labeled as “authentic vintage.”

Once wealthier shoppers entered the scene, they brought new spending power, and with that, new pricing models. Resale platforms like Depop, Poshmark, and The RealReal capitalized, turning what used to be low-cost community spaces into highly profitable marketplaces.

The irony? The people who needed thrift stores the most are now being priced out of them.

It’s the same story that plays out in gentrifying neighborhoods: as soon as something becomes desirable to the wealthy, the cost rises, and those who built the culture are often the first to be pushed out.

4) Sustainability became a marketing tool

Here’s the twist: thrifting has always been sustainable. Long before “eco-conscious fashion” became a tagline, people reused clothes because it made sense, financially and environmentally.

But now, sustainability has been rebranded as a luxury. Wealthier shoppers and brands use it as a moral badge of honor, a way to signal virtue. “I only wear pre-loved items” sounds noble, and it can be, but it’s also become another form of social currency.

The truth is, buying 30 thrifted outfits for Instagram content isn’t more sustainable than buying 30 new ones. The volume is still the problem.

I once volunteered at a local thrift store that raised funds for community programs. The donation bins were overflowing, not because people were shopping less, but because they were treating thrifting as fast fashion 2.0. Buy, post, donate, repeat.

True sustainability isn’t about aesthetics. It’s about restraint.

5) Thrift stores started catering to the affluent

Remember when thrift stores were a little chaotic? Fluorescent lighting, unpredictable sizing, and that distinct “old clothes” smell?

Many still are, but more and more are shifting toward a curated boutique model: clean displays, color-coordinated racks, and higher prices.

That’s not a coincidence. As more affluent shoppers began frequenting thrift stores, some organizations started catering to their tastes. I’ve seen stores set up “premium racks” for high-end items, with price tags to match.

When I asked one store manager why prices had gone up, she told me, “We have to stay competitive.” Translation: wealthy shoppers are setting the new norm.

It’s an uncomfortable truth. The thrift movement started as a way to make clothing accessible. Now, it’s leaning toward exclusivity.

6) The language around it changed

Language has power. And when it comes to thrifting, the rebrand has been subtle but telling.

Once upon a time, thrifted clothes were “used.” Now, they’re “pre-loved.” What was “cheap” is now “affordable luxury.” “Old” became “vintage.”

Even the word thrift itself used to carry a faint whiff of embarrassment. It implied frugality, even struggle. Today, it’s chic. We have “thrift culture,” “thrift challenges,” and “thrift influencers.”

That shift didn’t just happen organically. It was pushed by marketing teams and lifestyle brands eager to appeal to wealthier, image-conscious shoppers. By reframing secondhand consumption as sophisticated, they turned it into a marketable lifestyle.

And once the language changed, so did the perception, and the price.

7) It became a moral badge of honor

Here’s where it gets complicated. Once thrifting became trendy, it also became a moral statement. “I thrift because I care about the planet.” “I thrift to fight fast fashion.”

Those are admirable reasons, but they can also mask privilege. Because for some people, there was never an option not to thrift.

It reminds me of how minimalism was marketed a few years ago. Wealthy people started decluttering their homes and calling it “living intentionally,” while those who had always lived with less were rarely celebrated for their simplicity.

Thrifting followed the same path. What was once necessity is now framed as enlightenment.

Don’t get me wrong, being thoughtful about consumption is a good thing. But it’s worth remembering that morality and access aren’t the same thing. The ability to choose to live simply is a form of privilege in itself.

8) It lost some of its original community spirit

When I first started thrifting in my twenties, it felt like an adventure. You’d see all kinds of people: students, artists, parents with kids in tow, all hunting for hidden gems. There was a sense of connection in the shared experience.

Today, that energy feels a little different. Many thrift stores are quieter, replaced by online reselling platforms where items are priced like luxury goods.

Of course, there’s still community in thrifting. Local swap meets, clothing exchanges, and charity-driven shops are keeping that spirit alive. But the culture around it has changed. It’s become less about reusing and more about reselling.

I once asked a longtime thrift store volunteer what she thought about the shift. She smiled and said, “People used to come here looking for what they needed. Now they come looking for what will get the most likes.”

That sentence has stuck with me ever since.

Old-school thrifters vs. modern resellers

If you’ve ever spent a Saturday digging through bins for a treasure, you know that thrifting takes patience. That’s part of the charm. It’s the hunt, the surprise, the satisfaction of finding something special in a sea of ordinary.

But in recent years, a new breed of shopper has emerged: the reseller. These are people who buy in bulk from thrift stores, then flip items online for profit. On the surface, it seems harmless. After all, they’re keeping clothes in circulation.

But in reality, it’s contributing to scarcity and inflated prices. According to the 2024 Thrift Industry Report, thrift store shoppers reported spending significantly more at brick-and-mortar secondhand stores, a sign demand is rising and supply is tightening.

That’s capitalism doing what capitalism does best, turning even secondhand goods into another profit stream. And it’s squeezing out the very people thrifting was supposed to help.

Final thoughts

I still love thrifting. Always will. There’s something magical about giving new life to old things, about finding beauty in the overlooked.

But I think it’s important to be honest about how the culture has changed, and who gets left out when something once born of necessity becomes a trend.

Thrifting didn’t suddenly become valuable because wealthy people discovered it. It was always valuable, just in quieter ways. It represented creativity, resourcefulness, and care for the planet long before it showed up in a lifestyle vlog.

So if you’re someone who thrifts today, that’s wonderful. Just remember the roots. Support local shops that give back to the community. Donate intentionally. And resist the urge to turn every find into content.

Because the most sustainable thing any of us can do isn’t to consume differently. It’s to consume less.