As a college sophomore with an internet connection during the Obama era, I was instantly intrigued by the promise of the new direct-to-consumer clothing brand Everlane. I don’t remember how or when I found out about the fashion startup exactly; I just remember getting the emails. Launched around 2011 with venture capital funding, Everlane styled itself in a sort-of minimalist, pro-consumer ethos. The idea was simple: sell beautiful clothing made really well — so-called ‘modern basics’ — at reasonable prices. The company made it all the more enticing by amping up the exclusivity factor; like the early days of Gmail, you needed an invitation to shop. By forgoing brick-and-mortar stores, Everlane, co-founded by Michael Preysman, advertised itself as cutting out the middleman and allowing the consumer to reap the benefits. Initially, Everlane promised its wares — it started with boxy T-shirts — would always be priced at less than $100. The company embodied a decidedly millennial spirit: the idea that change was not only possible, but possible via simply buying better things. I spent hours pouring over the brand’s email marketing and clothing collections. I got off the waitlist in the fall of 2011 (‘You’re one of the first in the door!’, the email read), but for months, I just browsed. Even at their heavily discounted prices, I wondered if $25 was too much to pay for a pocket tee, when Urban Outfitters was just down the street — or if the quality of a $15 box-cut tee would hold up, especially if I couldn’t see or touch it before buying. In the early days, by Preysman’s own assessment, Everlane was operating almost as more of a branding exercise. ‘I have seen, candidly with Everlane, we’ve had periods where we had okay product when we launched, and the brand carried all the weight,’ he told a business podcast in 2024. ‘Then we had great products, and we had really high engagement.’ From the author’s email inbox. Frida Garza / Grist Indeed, over time, the company’s aesthetic and business model shifted as it grew in popularity and reach, and its price point changed with it. In 2017, Everlane announced that its first brick-and-mortar store would open in New York City, where shoppers can still browse $148 jeans and $268 cashmere sweaters today. Its mission also became more ambitious: Everlane announced plans in 2021 to reach net-zero emissions by 2050. The company sought to ‘empower people to live their best lives with the least impact on the planet — and leave the apparel industry cleaner than we found it.’ In its latest sustainability report, Everlane stated the company has reduced Scope 1, 2, and 3 emissions by 60 percent since 2019, and reduced per-product carbon emissions by 42 percent. The brand has signaled its commitment to the planet in other ways throughout the years, including its focus on using certified organic cotton and attempting to eliminate virgin plastic from its supply chain. Additionally, the company has taken the public inside its factories, publishing glossy-looking photos from its facilities in Vietnam, China, Italy, and other countries and tracking which ones use renewable energy and pay living wages. For these and other reasons, the company mystified consumers last week, when it was sold to the e-commerce giant Shein, which ranked as the biggest polluter in fast fashion last year. Shein offers clothing, jewelry, home goods, and accessories, all for sometimes shockingly cheap prices — the true cost of which is its carbon-intensive supply chain. The sale was orchestrated by L Catterton, the company’s majority owner, according to fashion reporter Laura Sherman who broke the story. (Preysman, who stepped down as CEO in 2022, wrote on LinkedIn that he ‘found out at the same time as everyone,’ and has since announced he would launch another Everlane-esque business with no venture capital or private equity money.) Fashion magazines balked, asking if Everlane’s acquisition spells the end of the fashion industry’s sustainability aspirations writ-large. But the sale of Everlane to this particular buyer should turn the inquiry around: Of what use are sustainability goals in the face of hyper-consumerism? Put another way: Was it ever the case that simply buying (more) different things would ever yield a more liveable planet? Consumers, it seems, only want to shop sustainably if it means they can, in fact, keep shopping: A study from 2025 found that even when shoppers are buying secondhand fashion, they’re also still buying new clothes. The companies’ offerings are, of course, different: Preysman famously told the New Yorker magazine, ‘You do not get laid in Everlane.’ Shein, meanwhile, is a one-stop shop for plunging necklines, revealing cut-outs, sheer fabrics, and ruffles on ruffles. And the methods are different, too: Shein is less of a fashion brand and more of an everything store — a no-man’s land of AI-powered nanotrends — akin to Amazon or Temu. Hop on over to the Shein website and you can just as easily find a halter top that makes you look like a ladybug or a pair of oversized jorts or buckets of slime. But, for all the hoopla around the acquisition, there are glimpses of Shein’s story in Everlane’s initial pitch, now adjusted for a new generation of shoppers accustomed to ultra-convenience. They were both, at one point, online-only stores offering clothes people wanted at seemingly unbeatable prices. And Shein has also apparently taken pages out of Everlane’s marketing playbook, by offering limited glimpses into its factories — albeit, heavily filtered through its influencer-fueled PR machine. In 2023, the platform invited a group of content creators on an all-expenses-paid trip to tour its facilities in Guangzhou, China. One influencer documented the visit in a video, noting that at least one worker was ‘surprised’ about the rumors that Shein factories’ poor working conditions. (The video has since been deleted.) The publicity move was immediately met with criticism for attempting to sanitize Shein’s reputation. Everlane’s store in San Francisco. Liz Hafalia / The San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images In fairness, fifteen years after it launched, Everlane is nowhere near the scale of Shein, which reportedly produces 10,000 new items per day. But the question around whether the fashion world can ever truly become sustainable is something of a red herring, and even Preysman knows this — or knew it, at one point. ‘The word sustainability has been completely greenwashed,’ he told Forbes in 2021. He went on: ‘Show me a fashion brand that claims it is sustainable, and I will show you a fashion brand that is not honest. One can be ‘more sustainable’ but nothing is truly sustainable.’ In the end, the future of fashion retail relies on consumers buying more clothes. I did eventually buy multiple things from Everlane: a canvas backpack that held up really nicely for years; a silk button-down I wore just as much to graduate school classes as I did on vacation. I bought a pair of bootcut jeans after a long, painstaking discussion with a salesperson and a third woman in the dressing room who butted into the conversation. But I never shop at the Everlane store or website anymore, and that’s because I don’t have to — the thrift stores of New York City are filled with the brand’s clothes. It’s not the only one: On the racks at Goodwill, I can always dependably find at least one Shein top these days. This story was originally published by Grist with the headline Everlane, Shein, and the myth of sustainable fashion on May 28, 2026.