I thought I was an ethical shopper – until I was forced to cut up a new pair of shoes

SINGAPORE – Like many sentimental hoarders, I hide keepsakes from unpleasantly formative life events in an inaccessible corner of my room – under my dresser. Letters from past romances, photos of friends I have fallen out with, and a pair of white ballet flats with a rectangular cut-out on each shoe’s edge.

As it so often is with failed relationships, I once thought these flats were The One(s). I bought them online last November, after my previous and only pair fell apart while weathering a torrential storm.

By then I had grown weary of fast-fashion makes that wore out every two years before heading to landfills like clockwork.

I have never claimed to have the blueprint on ethical shopping. But between years of buying second-hand and learning about sustainable production, I thought I was at least half a mark above the rest.

It was, I reasoned, high time I invested in a pair of flats that would last – and I knew just the pair. I had tried them on just weeks prior in a quaint store in Margate while visiting Britain, and their buttery soft lining lingered with me. They were made of trusty ol’ leather – which the brand claimed was processed through ethical and sustainable means. The design was understated, versatile. Plus, they accepted returns.

The shoes arrived about a month later from a warehouse in Spain, with an unsightly dent and about a centimetre too large despite being the same size I had tried on in-store. For $240, I expected better, and initiated a return request.

“In order to process your refund, we will need to receive a picture of the TONGUES OF YOUR SHOES. Please carefully cut both tongues (or the part of the shoes where the item number is stated),” the brand’s reply read.

A brand touting sustainability includes destroying its own products as part of its “return” policy? The shoes were defective, yes – but only aesthetically, and surely they could be a snug fit on the right Cinderella. Could the shoes not be fixed somehow? Or sold at a sample sale?

Through a particularly vexing e-mail thread, I learnt that the shoes could not be returned due to unelaborated “shipment conditions”, and that cutting them up was the only way to ensure I was not a scammer posing as an impassioned environmentalist.

Unwilling to go down without a fight, I tried to broker a deal with the brand over the next few weeks, which included having a London-based friend mail the shoes once he was back in Europe from his Singapore holiday. I also turned to Carousell, hoping a charitable soul would rescue the faulty shoes at a discount before the return deadline was up.

It did not work. It took three days of staring at the kitchen scissors before I caved in.

Research, research, research

Dreaming up ways to expose this brand’s idiosyncrasies became a favoured pastime of mine. But as I replayed the tale again and again, it dawned on me that my indignation had been misplaced. Really, I was mad at myself: I should have done more research.

My first blunder was assuming the shoes would be sent from Singapore. I bought them off the brand’s Singapore website and did not question if it had a physical store here (it did not).

Though destroying the shoes felt wasteful, insisting they be shipped all the way back to Spain might have been even worse for the environment.

Also, return policies vary. The window for returns can range from seven to 30 days, depending on the label. Some companies opt for exchange-only policies while others limit refunds to in-store credit. I did not expect a return policy quite so extreme – but I should have checked.

All my anger was channelled towards the brand because I expected its return policy to be a safety net for my own negligence. Without it, there was nothing to assuage my guilt.

But if I were serious about taking the most sustainable path, I probably should not have gone down the online shopping route – and definitely not purchase something from a large international brand.

In a perfect world, I would have stuck to my beliefs, rejected the refund and held out to rehome these shoes. But $240 to someone who has been employed full time for just 15 months is no small sum to gamble away, and capitalist priorities unsurprisingly prevailed.

Balancing personal impulses, needs, desires and the earth – it is not lost on me how much easier this is said than done. When it comes to the “most sustainable” option – research as you may – there exist cavernous factors beyond our knowledge or control.

Some sustainable practices come more easily to me than others. I have leaned towards a plant-based diet for most of my life and am routinely happy to walk moderate distances instead of taking the bus. Shopping, however, is my kryptonite.

In Mike Schur’s sitcom The Good Place, which questions the ethics of being a good person, a reformed demon pleads humanity’s case by arguing that modern life has grown too complicated for anyone to be “good” enough.

“These days, just buying a tomato at a grocery store means you are unwittingly supporting toxic pesticides, exploiting labour, contributing to global warming.

“Humans think that they’re making one choice, but they’re actually making dozens of choices they don’t even know they’re making,” he says.

It can be exhausting to navigate a web as intricate as sustainable consumption, futile even.

As an introductory activity during an environmental studies class four years ago, my professor had us try out an ecological footprint calculator. We learnt that our carbon footprints are by and large shaped by things outside our control: the country we live in, its environmental policies, the type of housing and electricity we have.

Save for cutting down on frequent flights or excessive consumption, there is little agency in our day-to-day activities to significantly reduce our environmental impact, let alone make a dent in the larger climate crisis.

So why try?

Because the alternative would be to do nothing. The first to bear the brunt of the climate crisis is not us, safely tucked within Singapore, but the vulnerable in underprivileged communities. We owe it to them, and ourselves, to do what little we can.

These days, I try to shop more locally (that is, made in Singapore, or already shipped to Singapore). If I cannot find what I am looking for, I will limit the search to indie brands within South-east Asia.

Most online shopping apps on my phone have been deleted, since their presence often encouraged aimless browsing which ended in a purchase I convinced myself I needed. I have also unsubscribed from dozens of newsletters by different brands. Blissful ignorance of ongoing sales means I no longer make rash purchases out of fear that I am missing out on a good deal.

Meanwhile, I have been cultivating a Rolodex of home-grown fashion labels that pride themselves on craftsmanship, using sustainable materials and making products that last. When in need of a little extra charm, I visit the handmade jewellery shop at the Marine Parade wet market, or head to Chinatown for its hand-beaded shoes and tailor-fitted batik skirts.

Like an ill-fitting pair of shoes, committing to sustainability in a world constantly pushing us to consume more can be uncomfortable – but it does not mean we do not try.