When Everlane burst onto the apparel scene in 2010, its “radical transparency” on matters of pricing and sourcing, coupled with its emphasis on a clean, modern aesthetic and storytelling about the people and places behind its product, made it a hit with millennials seeking chic wardrobe basics, along with the warm and fuzzy feeling of being a responsible consumer.
Those millennials professing to “vote” with their dollars placed greater weight on sustainability, authenticity, and companies being good corporate citizens than their elders did and saw such virtues as perhaps just as important as the functionality or beauty of the products themselves. Tapping into that zeitgeist helped Everlane sell a lot of product at higher prices than its fast-fashion counterparts—and win the attention of major investors, including VC firms such as Kleiner Perkins and Khosla, as well as LVMH-backed L Catterton.
So the news last week that Shein—a hyper fast-fashion brand whose name has become synonymous with high-velocity consumerism—bought the now struggling, debt-laden Everlane for $100 million (well below its peak of $600 million), set off a slew of think pieces about the demise of “conscious consumerism.” And indeed, it adds to the mounting evidence that an ethical stance, without a clear value proposition and raison d’être, is not enough for a brand to succeed these days.
Everlane is not the only relic of the ethical consumption era to find itself in ignominious circumstances. In March, Allbirds, once beloved by the Silicon Valley set for its sustainably made wool sneakers, said it would sell itself to a brand management company for $39 million, or 1% of its peak value. Then, after years of making its eco-friendliness the very center of its brand messaging and identity, the sneaker-maker left analysts befuddled with the announcement that it would re-invent itself as an AI infrastructure company.
Another brand to emerge from this era of eco-friendly mindfulness, the plant-based food company Beyond Meat, sought to tap into consumers’ desire for the taste of meat without the guilt of its environmental costs or the ethical tradeoffs of large-scale agriculture. Once touted as a pioneer of the high-tech future of food, it saw revenue plunge as consumers have either decided they prefer real meat or balked at the higher prices Beyond Meat was charging. The company recently dropped “Meat” from its name and entered new categories such as protein drinks to tap into consumers’ growing interest in protein-based products.
All three companies tapped into a zeitgeist, but appear to have forgotten that products have to offer consumers more than a feeling of virtuousness to build an enduring business.
In the case of Everlane, there was nothing particularly special about its generic but well-made clothing in tastefully bland colors. The original proposition was that consumers would be willing to pay more for products made ethically and sustainably. But in an uncertain “K-shaped” economy, it turns out that many shoppers are not going to shell out for vague promises about an item’s origins. Meanwhile, other brands with similar aesthetics—including Uniqlo, Quince or even some lines at Walmart—have become formidable competitors without the virtue-signaling.
“The brands ran out of steam when their promises ran afoul of the economics of consumer preference,” Forrester Research vice president and principal analyst Dipanjan Chatterjee wrote this week about Everlane and Allbirds. “The consumer gap between stated values and revealed behavior became painfully clear.” He noted that his firm’s research has shown time and time again that factors such as price, convenience, reliability, and design are more important to consumers than sustainability.
Over time, shoppers have also grown more skeptical of the idea that they can buy their way to a better world. The promise of conscious consumerism never really grappled with the fact that the core problem is overconsumption itself—and global demand for clothes, shoes, and cheap products has continued to climb. Many consumers now seem to grasp that choosing the “right” sneaker or burger might offer a personal sense of virtue, but it does little to deliver the kind of systemic change needed to tackle climate risk, exploitative labor practices, or the depletion of natural resources.
It’s not that consumers don’t care about environmental stewardship and fair wages for the people that make their clothing and food—but the Everlane saga suggests that they don’t see ethical and sustainable practices, in themselves, as a reason to pay a premium.
