I didn’t grow up with money. We weren’t poor but we were careful—every dollar had a job and luxuries were saved for birthdays or rare “just because” moments. So when I discovered thrift stores at sixteen it felt less like shopping and more like treasure hunting.
Back then I wasn’t thinking about sustainability or slow fashion. Those words didn’t exist in my vocabulary. I was just looking for something that made me feel like me—a girl who loved old movies lace collars and the idea that clothes could carry stories.
My first real vintage find was a navy blue wool coat with brass buttons and a slightly nipped waist. It smelled faintly of cedar and mothballs but when I put it on I felt like Katharine Hepburn stepping onto a train bound for somewhere important. I paid eight dollars for it. Wore it every winter for seven years until the lining frayed beyond repair. I still miss it.
Now in my forties I still visit vintage stores every chance I get. Not because I’m trying to stand out but because I’m tired of blending in. Fast fashion gives us endless choice but little soul. Everything looks the same because it is the same—mass produced cut from identical patterns shipped across oceans to hang in identical stores from coast to coast.
Vintage is different. Each piece has survived something. Maybe it danced at a wedding in 1963. Maybe it was packed in a suitcase during a cross country move. Maybe it sat in an attic for decades waiting for someone to see its worth again. When I wear vintage I don’t just wear fabric—I wear resilience.
People often ask how I find good pieces. My answer is simple: go often be patient and touch everything. Don’t just look at the racks near the door. Dig into the back corners. Check the men’s section for oversized blazers. Flip through dresses by fabric not just color. And always—always—check the seams. A well made garment from the 1950s will often outlast anything made last season.
I’ve found silk blouses with hand stitched hems 1970s corduroy pants that fit like they were tailored for me and a pair of leather gloves so soft they feel like second skin. None of it matched my existing wardrobe when I bought it. But over time these pieces became the backbone of my style—the things I reach for when I want to feel grounded authentic and quietly bold.
And yes sometimes I buy things that don’t work out. There’s a velvet hat in my closet that looked glamorous in the store but makes me look like a confused magician at home. That’s part of the fun. Vintage shopping isn’t about perfection. It’s about curiosity.
Last month I took my daughter to a small shop downtown. She held up a 1980s floral dress and said “This would look great with my boots.” I watched her try it on and saw the same spark in her eyes I felt at sixteen. Not because the dress was expensive or trendy but because it felt like hers the moment she put it on.
That’s the magic of vintage. It doesn’t tell you who to be. It helps you remember who you already are.
So if you’ve never stepped into a vintage store give it a try. Go alone or with a friend. Take your time. Let yourself wander. You might leave with nothing. Or you might leave with a coat that carries you through your next chapter—one button at a time.
— Sarah
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