There was a time when, in order to acquire a new item of clothing – say, a dress – you had to either inherit it from a family member or trek to a store and have an identity crisis in the changing room. Now, you can buy one in under two minutes from your couch.

Online shopping should have made my life easier. Being able to purchase from home or on my commute should have freed up my time and energy. It should have also made me a more ethical, conscious consumer. No need to load up on plasticky tops from Forever 21 – I could use my phone to shop secondhand or from sustainable brands. Instead, the siren song of cute clothes consumed my brain and lured me on to the rocks of infinite scrolling, consumerism and credit card debt.

I used to love scrolling through pages of models who looked nothing like me, wearing pieces I could never afford or pull off. This sartorial fantasising was a way to kill time and to escape. Waiting for a friend at a restaurant? Time to hunt for wide-leg jeans. Tough day at work? Pull up the RealReal and search for a blazer that would make me appear competent. Bad date? Buy a skirt for a good one.

It was an expensive, time-consuming coping mechanism. I spent money I didn’t have and, although sometimes the clothes were great, often they weren’t quite right. Even if they didn’t fit, or I hated them, I never returned them because the whole process felt too daunting. Printing a return label? Going all the way to the post office? I have but one wild and precious life to live! And besides, what if in the next couple of years my body and personality completely changed and these clothes became perfect for me?

It gave me the nagging sense that I was one purchase away from becoming the person I was supposed to be. Surely, once I found the exact right sweater dress or pair of boots, everything would fall into place. The hunt for myself was constant – and exhausting.

Then, a few years ago, out of financial necessity and after a particularly grim cull of my closet before a cross-country move (donating that many one-shoulder tops really makes you confront yourself and your choices), I decided to stop. From now on, I would shop only in person and I would only buy clothes I really, truly loved on me – as they were, and as I was.

Almost immediately, I found myself with a lot more free time and mental energy. Shopping for clothes in person took more effort, but it was a contained activity. I wasn’t spending hours trying to imagine what I might wear if I were someone completely different. I wasn’t constantly taking stock of what I lacked. Over time, I felt better about myself. I also saved money.

I have not been perfect, and my carbon footprint is still bigger than I’d care to admit. Just the other week, I got an email about a criminally good sale on cardigans, so I bought two, because it seemed financially irresponsible not to. When they arrived, they fitted weirdly, and I realised they must have been on sale for a reason.

For the most part, though, I’ve kept to my word. When I start to feel the urge to spend two hours shopping for midi skirts on my phone, I try to figure out what is behind that impulse: sometimes I’m bored; sometimes I’m feeling insecure. Most of the time, this insight is enough to douse the burning urge to scroll.

And if it’s not, I trek to a store and have an identity crisis in the changing room. As nature intended.