What I Can’t Afford—and Why That’s Changed My Style

On choosing less, spending better, and making peace with the pieces that get away

Kelly Williams

’s post, I Can’t Afford Everything I Want, sat with me for days.

I Can't Afford Everything I Want

It wasn’t a revelation, exactly—I’ve always known that money shapes my wardrobe, that I can’t buy everything I want—but the way she framed it shifted something in me.

What if that’s not a bad thing?

We don’t often say it out loud. Instead, we talk around it. We call things investments. We justify purchases with cost-per-wear. We scroll past women in $1,200 coats and $700 blazers and assume this is just how things are now. We don’t ask how they afford it—whether they saved for months, whether their job covers it easily, whether a partner or family money or brand sponsorships made it possible.

We see the finished look, but we don’t see the full picture.

Money changes what fashion feels like. For some, shopping is pure freedom. For others, it’s a negotiation—a balance between desire and limitation, between I love this and I shouldn’t. That tension isn’t always comfortable, but it’s not necessarily bad.

Limits don’t ruin personal style. They define it.

What Could I Actually Afford?

Dreaming of this beautiful wool coat—but at 50% off, it’s still US$1,197!

Here’s the part I keep coming back to: when I look at my annual spending on clothes, I could afford that $1,000 blazer. That $2,000 coat. The really good pieces I always assume are out of reach.

But I don’t buy them, because I’m spending that same amount elsewhere—on cheaper pieces, on things that work for my life right now.

Part of my focus on lower price points isn’t just about budget. It’s about practicality. My clothes have to survive things that expensive pieces might not: bodily fluids, grass stains, sweat. I’m a mom. I travel constantly for work. My wardrobe has to function across multiple realities, and sometimes that means prioritizing durability over luxury.

So I find myself caught in this tension: Is my wardrobe actually better because I spread my budget across many pieces? Or would I be better off saving and buying a few truly great things?

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When Did My Idea of “Reasonable” Shift?

Lately, I’ve been noticing how my perception of value has changed.

I remember when a $100 top felt expensive. Now, I see a $150 t-shirt and think, not bad for good quality. But is it actually good quality, or am I just making excuses?

Prices aren’t just creeping up—they’re skyrocketing. The $80 pair of pants I used to buy are now $200. The coats that were once $300 are now $800 (and often still <50% wool/!).

And yet, we tell ourselves this is normal. We tell ourselves this is just inflation, or better materials, or a shift toward sustainability. But more often than not, it’s just branding.

And price no longer guarantees quality.

$360 dress but made to fit with shitty elastic—this will not last

I’ve held $500 sweaters that felt indistinguishable from a $50 one. Blazers with 2% elastane that will bag out within a year. Wool coats so thin they might as well be polyester. Somehow, we’ve landed in a world where even expensive things aren’t made to last.

So what am I paying for? The quality? The name? The idea of myself in it?

Reframing Clothing as a Financial Priority

Fashion is often treated as frivolous, especially in personal finance spaces. But why?

Everyone has their discretionary spending—travel, dining, hobbies, tech—but somehow, clothing always feels more scrutinized. Yet the reality is, clothing isn’t just self-expression; it’s how we move through the world. It shapes confidence, professional presence, even daily comfort.

So why do we feel guilty about prioritizing it?

I’ve started to think about this differently. Instead of treating shopping as an impulse-driven habit, I’m experimenting with a dedicated fashion fund—a way to be intentional, rather than reactive, about what I buy. From tracking my spending for years, I know roughly how much I can comfortably spend each year. Why not be more deliberate in allocating it?

If I treat clothing like I treat other financial priorities—planned, anticipated, respected—my behavior shifts.

A fashion fund changes everything.

Suddenly, I’m not “breaking my budget” when I buy a coat in October—I’m using the budget I already set aside. There’s no shame in the purchase because it was expected, accounted for.

It also reframes splurging into something softer, more aligned with my values. Maybe that $1,000 blazer does make sense—if it’s the one I want, if it’s high-quality, and if I’ve planned for it. That doesn’t make me irresponsible. That makes me someone who understands her priorities and spends accordingly.

A fashion fund also guards against the slow, forgettable bleed of little purchases. The $40 here, the $90 there. Fast fashion that doesn’t quite fit, the shirt you buy just because you’re stressed. With a fund in place, I find myself asking: Would I rather spend $300 over three forgettable items, or hold that money for one thing I truly love?

It creates pause. Intention. Perspective.

And maybe most importantly, it gives me permission. Permission to care about what I wear. Permission to plan for beauty. Permission to say, this matters to me, and to align my financial life around that truth.

It’s not about spending more. It’s about spending better.

It’s about building a wardrobe—and a financial practice—that supports the life I actually want to live.

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How to Consume More Intentionally (On Any Budget)

I’ve spent the past year rethinking how I shop. Not just what I buy, but why. What’s worth it, what isn’t, and how to make peace with the fact that I can’t have everything. (I even did the super trendy no buy, which I’m very tempted to revisit!)

Wardrobe Audit Jan '25: Did My "Low Buy Work?

Here’s what has helped:

1. Create Space Between Desire and Purchase

• The most powerful tool isn’t money; it’s time. Give yourself a cooling-off period before buying. Wishlist everything. If you still want it in a month, it’s worth reconsidering.

2. Define Your Own “Luxury”

• Luxury doesn’t always mean expensive—it means intentional. A $30 vintage silk scarf can feel richer than a $600 trendy bag. A perfectly tailored $100 blazer might be more valuable than a designer one that doesn’t fit quite right.

3. Track Your Spending, But Also Your Feelings

• Keep a shopping journal!

  Hey Mrs. Solomon on Style
  is best at this. Write down why you wanted something, what gap it filled, and how you felt after buying it. Patterns will emerge. You’ll start to see what was worth it—and what wasn’t.

4. Get Obsessed With Materials & Construction

• Price doesn’t always equal quality. Learn to check fabric content, stitching, and fit. A 100% wool coat on sale for $200 might outlast a designer one with 50% polyester. A well-made $50 dress can be better than a flimsy $500 one.

5. Know Your Numbers

• Have a monthly or yearly budget. But also set guidelines—how much is reasonable for a sweater? A bag? A coat? This keeps you from getting tricked into spending $250 on a basic cotton tee just because it’s labeled “elevated.”

6. Play the Long Game

• If you have champagne taste on a prosecco budget, patience is everything. Use alerts, resale platforms, and seasonal sales. That $700 blazer you love might be $200 in six months.

  Irene Kim (김애린)
  is awesome at this!

7. Buy With Your Future Self in Mind

• Ask: Will I love this in a year? In five? Fast fashion thrives on urgency. Real style comes from knowing what truly belongs in your wardrobe.

My wishlist has also helped!

A Smarter Wishlist: How I Stopped Justifying Every Purchase

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Rethinking Consumption

Kelly’s piece reminded me that limits aren’t something to fight against—they’re something to work with.

If I could buy everything I wanted, I’d be drowning in it. There’s something powerful in the pause, in the space between wanting and having. That’s where style is shaped—not in owning more, but in choosing better.

Maybe the real question isn’t Can I afford this? but What does affording this actually mean?

What am I prioritizing? What am I sacrificing?

And what kind of shopper—what kind of person—do I actually want to be?

I don’t have all the answers yet. But I know this:

I can’t afford everything I want.

And that’s exactly why my style keeps getting better (I hope!).