Depop Doomscrolling: The Psychology Of Gen Z’s Popular Fashion Resale App

Written By Cooper Valko

As of late, I’ve noticed that my wardrobe—in an evermoving state of gradual expansion—is curated largely by secondhand purchases through the fashion resale app Depop. I was curious as to why I hailed the platform and continued to visit it time after time. Since its launch in 2011, Depop has tripled the value of the online thrifting industry, sustaining 90% of its platform with young, digitally fluent users. Simon Beckerman, the entrepreneurial visionary and founder of Depop, originally imagined it as a social platform for individuals to showcase and sell their original products. Instead, the platform adopted facets from other popular apps, evolving into an interactive, online thrifting marketplace for Generation Z.

With a product display reminiscent of Pinterest’s bulletin-board interface, the networking capabilities of Instagram—enabling exchanges of likes, messages, and follows—and the buying power of eBay, Depop soon advanced through Gen Z’s digital culture. When I joined the platform in 2022, I immediately understood how to navigate it, likely because its mediators were people my age. As the user base collectively popularized familiar trends, I found myself experimenting with styles and developing an early, curated sense of self.

One report with Bain & Company notes, “Gen Z simultaneously consumes and produces: it exchanges ideas, products, and services on platforms more than other generations… using the same platform to do many things: create and seek inspiration; gain access and share information; spend and make money; find community and generate business” (Bain). It is no wonder, then, that Depop’s versatility, familiarity, and aesthetic appeal not only attracted users but anchored its long-term success. Simultaneously, these qualities arguably make the app addictive, especially for young users who lack refined impulse control. Confronted with thousands of curated listings, competition for specific styles and items, and countless opportunities to consume, Gen Z falls into what I call a “Depop Doomscroll”: an all-immersive, time-consuming scavenge for individuality and virality.

Ultimately, what underpins Depop’s success is Gen Z’s innate interest in secondhand shopping. For many, thrifting is not only a financial necessity but a creative activity— one that strikes home for innovators, explorers, and collectors. Though as thrift stores garnered popularity, others sought to exploit thrift store prices by purchasing items in bulk and reselling them online for profit. What was once a resource for low-income individuals became a lucrative endeavor for resellers who significantly mark up prices.

In the midst of this shift, I found myself contemplating resale: “If this doesn’t turn out, I’ll just resell it.” Relying on this newly digitalized marketability for my secondhand pieces changed the way I approached purchasing from the thrift. As similar mindsets spread, thrift stores became less accessible, and this gentrification inflated secondhand price tags. However, this same movement made digital consignment all the more popular.

Gen Z culture also emphasizes sustainability. Having grown up in a period of climate injustice and economic upheaval, young people are earnestly deprecatory of overproduction. Thrifting offers an alternative mode of fashionability that is both affordable and discreetly critical of unethical practices in the fashion industry. Depop capitalizes on these values by offering an environmentally conscious, treasure-hunting, penny-saving shopping experience. Not only that, but the platform is personalized through a regenerative algorithm that draws upon users’ recent likes and searches. Upon opening the app, users are greeted with a bottomless feed of items tailored to their tastes. I consistently find myself scrolling, waiting to discover the perfect jeans, bomber jacket, pointed-toe kitten heel, or fitted top.

This doomscrolling is a behavior fueled by consumer anxiousness and boredom. Officially, doomscrolling describes the prolonged consumption of distressing news or social media content centered on crisis or tragedy. I personally extend this definition to include a form of worry-induced online browsing; it squanders time and distracts from anxiety while ultimately intensifying it.

In our overproducing world, fashion relevance feels fleeting. Garments move quickly from prized to obsolete, creating the illusion that our closets are perpetually outdated. According to a Depop survey, 45% of users shop to “tap into trends,” seeking virality through their purchases, while 55% are in search of something one-of-a-kind. Gen Z fixates on both individuality and relevance, fueling obsessions that manifest through archived and reimagined secondhand fashion. Depop thrives on this dichotomy, recycling microtrends that reward recurring, short-term niches, which in turn sustain superficial personas such as the “performative male.” With approximately 400,000 new items uploaded daily, it’s easy to chronically overconsume, especially when most pieces cost a fraction of their retail value.

Beyond trend-chasing, I find that boredom frequently plays into my Depop use. The same survey concluded that 35% of users participate in “entertainment scrolling.” Once I open the app, I linger, hoping to encounter something undeniable. This fear of missing out—believing that one more swipe might yield a rare find—glues me to my phone, despite no guaranteed reward. For individuals under the age of 25, our underdeveloped prefrontal cortexes can make breaking these cycles especially difficult, even more so when platforms like Depop mimic social media structures that promote interpersonal interaction, consumption, and perceived opportunity.

Above all, I find my anxiety peaking during bidding and negotiation. Depop’s model implies that only a limited amount of each item exists at any given time. Listings display a counter of likes, offers, and carts from other potential buyers. Users either purchase immediately or hover, waiting as engagement climbs and availability dwindles. The other week, I found a Chloé Paddington purse listed for $400 and placed a $300 bid. The seller was unresponsive, so I checked regularly over the next thirty hours until the bag ultimately sold at full price. Instances like this exemplify my unhealthy attachment to the platform and underscore the vulnerability of young people using digital spaces that manufacture urgency.  

The online evolution of thrifting has transformed the way Generation Z consumes fashion. In search of trendiness and spaces to cultivate individuality, we have constructed a multifunctional online marketplace that resonates with our values and embodies our digital world. Depop offers a uniquely tailored environment for its digitally savvy users— one that accommodates boredom while encouraging consumer anxiety. All this to say, I don’t view Depop as an unredeemable or unreliable platform for buying clothes. Some years ago, I purchased two lightly used Victoria’s Secret bras for $45 that I continue to wear regularly. My interaction with that seller was pleasant, and the items have continued to exceed their secondhand value. While I don’t plan to abandon my Depop account, I intend to engage with the app more intentionally. By staying mindful of my time and conservative with my spending, Depop will continue to be a useful outlet rather than a source of compulsive consumption.

Cooper Valko
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