How does the saying go? My name is Vicky, and I have a Vinted addiction.
It’s not especially glamorous to admit you’ve developed an unhealthy habit of buying second-hand clothes. It’s hardly Sex and the City. But I’m not alone — not by a long shot.
We are living through a second-hand fashion boom. Platforms like Vinted and Depop are thriving. Last year alone, Vinted recorded a staggering £80 million in profits, with Depop close behind at £63 million. The success isn’t surprising — they’ve managed to make thrifting not only socially acceptable, but downright addictive.
Both apps function as digital wardrobes, connecting buyers and sellers of pre-loved clothing. You upload, you scroll, you buy, and voilà — your parcel is en route by courier. Often, these purchases are priced at just a few pounds, which gives the illusion of harmless spending. But make no mistake: there’s nothing harmless about the compulsive way these apps worm into your mind.
They’ve managed to achieve what every fast fashion brand dreams of — gamifying the shopping experience to an extraordinary degree.
Opening Vinted feels like stepping into a video game. You’re suddenly immersed in a world of notifications, alerts, ‘favourite’ lists and buyer badges. You hunt through endless scrolling feeds like you’re searching for treasure. You race to ‘buy now’ before someone else snags the bargain you’ve just discovered.
For sellers, the addiction is just as insidious. Upload enough items and you earn a “Frequent Uploads” badge. Miss a few weeks? That badge vanishes. Welcome to the dopamine economy.
Ratings systems incentivise good behaviour. Get enough five stars and you start to feel like a trustworthy entrepreneur. And the cherry on top? When someone pays you, it doesn’t go into your bank account right away — oh no. It’s Vinted credit, ready and waiting to be spent again. “It’s not real money!” your brain cheerfully tells you. Until your overdraft says otherwise.
Over on Depop, the sense of urgency is turned up to 11. See something you like and you’ll immediately be informed how many other people also have it in their basket. Someone else has made an offer. “Make moves to make it yours,” the app whispers. And, like some pavlovian fashion addict, you press “Buy” with a wild sense of triumph.
This is not accidental. This is user experience design working exactly as intended. These apps — while marketed as sustainable alternatives to fast fashion — are just as clever, just as ruthless, at separating us from our cash.
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My own descent into second-hand madness began innocently enough. I was after a winter coat — nothing flashy. Vinted seemed perfect. I found one. Then I found another. Then a pair of boots. A vintage bag. Suddenly I was opening the app just to scroll, the same way you might open Instagram or TikTok — except now there’s a purchase button at the bottom of every picture.
I’ve just spent more than I’d care to admit on a slightly questionable top I definitely don’t need. Buyer’s remorse is setting in as I type.
The cruel irony is that these platforms are better for the planet — in theory. Buying second-hand extends the life of clothes that might otherwise end up in landfill. But if we’re now buying four times as much just because it’s “pre-loved”, are we really doing any better?
My brain’s hooked. I know I should delete the app, cold turkey style. But then what happens to the clothes I’m selling? What if someone makes me an offer? What if I miss a really good deal?
It’s a slippery slope, and I’m halfway down it. My advice? Save yourselves while you still can.
