What a healthy dose of buyer’s remorse reveals about current consumer habits.
I recently read Jessica Bruder’s Nomadland: Surviving America in the Twenty-First Century. It is an impressive piece of journalism that interweaves the narratives of retirement-age individuals who, failed by the American economy during the Great Recession, discover the freedom of the vagrant RV lifestyle.
As I devoured Bruder’s affecting words, I asked myself two questions. Could I live like this, always on the move, my only worldly possessions a vehicle and anything that could fit inside of it? And would I be happier if I owned less?
I pondered how many RVs I would need to comfortably fit all of my clothes, shoes, skincare items, knickknacks, electronic devices, et cetera. One would be impossible. Two would be a tight squeeze. I continued to reflect — is physically having enough space for abundance a good enough reason to own an abundance of things?
Ever since I can remember, I have suffered from buyer’s remorse; a dull depression that washes away the excitement of any purchase. Whether I am buying for myself or for others, more often than not, I leave the store, or close the virtual checkout tab, feeling like I did something wrong. Ridding myself of what I don’t need almost always feels better than gaining something superfluous. And buyer’s remorse isn’t a unique experience. I’ve spoken to countless friends who undergo the same dreary dilemma: if I love clothes — or shoes, or jewelry, or home decor, or fancy condiments, whatever your vice might be — then why does shopping make me feel like shit?
Finding an exact definition of “buyer’s remorse” is complicated. A quick Google search spawns a compilation of sketchy-looking links: mostly banks and marketing companies offering advice on how to “get over it” and “break the cycle.” According to the Cambridge Dictionary, buyer’s remorse is simply “a feeling of regret after making a choice or decision.” Using this definition, the phenomenon is not exclusive to shopping. It also encompasses, for instance, the experience of leaving a polling place and feeling like you voted for the wrong candidate.
The throughline is cognitive dissonance: a state of discomfort that occurs when a person’s behavior and beliefs conflict with each other. For example, I am passionate about sustainable fashion. I buy most of my clothes secondhand and prioritize brands known for ethical manufacturing processes. But sometimes, Free People releases a barrel jean that feels irresistible, or an Edikted sale feels too good to pass up. By purchasing from these brands, I’m going against my values. The result is contrition. Even when I am staying true to my belief in sustainable consumption by shopping secondhand, I am still vulnerable to the compunction of spontaneous purchases. Re-donating something you bought from Goodwill is not a good feeling.
There are endless hypothetical situations in which shopping can reveal a piece of yourself that you don’t identify with. A spontaneous purchase combats thoughtful decision-making, a microtrend contests with a timeless wardrobe, an ugly sweater wrestles good style. For a litany of specific and personal reasons, remorse sets in when we feel a lack of control.
For some people, this feeling can be inhibiting. On Reddit, one anonymous user posted that, without any financial constraints, they spend full days beating themselves up over any purchase greater than $50. Multiple people responded to the thread warning the user that this behavior is unhealthy. I’m no psychologist, but they’re probably right.
Others responded with empathy. Someone under the username “workana” commented, “You work to live and enjoy life, not to sit on a hoard of money that does not have any inherent value of its own.” Is workana right? If you’re lucky enough to not only survive off of your earnings but to enjoy excess, shouldn’t you be able to do that sans guilt?
Buyer’s remorse isn’t a new phenomenon. According to the Oxford English Dictionary (the free version), the earliest recorded use of the term is from The Post-Standard in 1951. Without getting too historical, or reneging on my loyalty to Merriam-Webster, it makes sense that regretful shopping began around that time.
After the second World War and the Great Depression, America experienced a stark rise in spending power. Citizens were encouraged to spend in an effort to support the country’s then-booming economy. The first suburb was created in 1946, and as people moved out of cities and into suburban homes, they purchased cars, televisions, refrigerators, Tupperware. In a 2021 Vox article, Juliet Schor, a sociologist at Boston College, explained that as machines began pumping out all kinds of objects, social hierarchies became characterized by how much one could consume. “Increases in inequality trigger what I’ve called ‘competitive consumption,’” Schor says. “The idea that we spend because we’re comparing ourselves with our peers and what they’re spending.”
In the 20th century, “competitors” were friends, neighbors and perhaps famous people on television. Today, a competitor can be literally anyone, anywhere. Social media is flooded with images and videos of lavish vacations, shopping sprees, exclusive events, and unrealistic lifestyles. Influencers get paid to flaunt their consumption in a campaign to encourage laypeople to buy more things. And shopping is easier than ever. All you need is access to wi-fi and credit card information to order anything from a vibrator to a Tesla Model X. If Schor’s theory of “competitive consumption” is intrinsic, it is unquestionable that today’s levels of comparison and competition are heightened by social media and online shopping.
While the experience of shopping has become less intimate — no need for human interaction or tangible money — it isn’t less personal. Sure, today one could survive and thrive without ever entering a brick-and-mortar store, but brands still rely on connection, just in a modern form.
Through digital marketing and complex algorithms, we are specifically targeted with relevant products. It is not uncommon that, when someone purchases something from an Instagram ad, it is a product they’ve interacted with many times, either through the brand directly, through influencer marketing, or simply through interacting with mutuals on social media.
While there is a calculated operation to get the right products in front of the right people via the right screens, companies are also content when you’re trigger-happy. To ensure a seamless user experience, the boundaries to online shopping are near nonexistent. There is no virtual retail assistant asking if you’d like to wait for those shoes to go on sale next month, or if you’re sure that’s the best color for your skin tone.
According to a study on the repercussions of in-app shopping by a student at the University of Tennessee, the influence of peer pressure is more detrimental than the method of shopping. It creates the feeling of not being in control of your decisions which leads to negative emotions. So, is buyer's remorse something we should try to resolve? Barring extenuating cases, like the Reddit user who can’t buy anything without extreme guilt or someone on the opposite end of the spectrum who recklessly spends themselves into debt and feels nothing, is a healthy dose of buyer’s remorse something we can benefit from? The discomfort of cognitive dissonance motivates us to make decisions that will reduce feelings of dissonance in the future. And it’s easier to change inconsistent behaviors than it is to change your core beliefs.
Though buyer’s remorse is objectively a modern problem, perhaps its origins are primitive. Could that twinge of guilt be a calling from our ancestors, warning us that all of this stuff is holding us back, that we have a better chance of survival if we carry light? Maybe it’s our innate connection to nature reminding us that overconsumption is the root of global warming and human injustice.
That doesn’t insinuate that people who don’t experience buyer’s remorse are incompassionate toward exploitative labor and environmental destruction. For some people, shopping is just more emotional than for others. That also doesn’t mean that the solution to buyer’s remorse is to stop shopping altogether. Being human today is about so much more than survival. It is about experience, indulgence, self-expression, individuality. Maybe buyer’s remorse is just something we have to learn to be comfortable with, allowing it to keep us grounded while not letting it completely inhibit our modern lives.
Many of the people Bruder wrote about didn’t choose to live like nomads. They were forced to sell their homes and their excess possessions. But, over time, many became happy with their lifestyle, content with minimalism and the freedom that accompanied it.
Excess can mean a mansion, a flashy car, a pantry stocked with every snack imaginable and a designer closet. But it also means having a choice. Having the freedom to live however you want to live. The fact that we experience buyer’s remorse demonstrates that just because we can doesn’t mean we should. And it tells me that, though I don’t have to, if I were to downsize and live in Nomadland, I would be okay. 🌀
Julia Gordon is a budding journalist based in Chicago, and sometimes South Florida. She is obsessed with finding the perfect pair of baggy jeans and geeks out over curating hyper-specific Spotify playlists. She covers all things fashion and personal style on her own Substack Wear it Well.