I didn’t set out to become more demanding. There was no manifesto, no vow to reject fast fashion or ultra-processed food. It started, almost embarrassingly, with a boring habit: doing one weekly shop at the same place, at roughly the same time, without rushing.
That consistency did something subtle. It slowed me down just enough to notice details I’d previously ignored — stitching, ingredient lists, how long things actually lasted. Once you start noticing, it’s hard to stop. Standards, it turns out, creep up on you.
The first shift was with food. Not in a dramatic “clean eating” way, but in a quiet recalibration of expectations. Meals tasted more intentional. Portions felt thought through rather than padded out. I found myself reading labels out of curiosity, not guilt. When something claimed to be indulgent, it actually was. That sounds obvious, but it isn’t. We’re used to marketing promises doing most of the work. Here, the product had to back it up.
That weekly shop became a reference point. When I bought groceries elsewhere, the contrast was loud. Sauces tasted flatter. Ready meals blurred together. Even packaging felt more performative than honest. I wasn’t suddenly above it all — I just knew what “better” looked like, and that knowledge stuck.
Clothing followed, unintentionally. I’d pick up basics during the same routine — a plain tee, knitwear, underwear — things I used to buy without thinking. The difference wasn’t trendiness; it was restraint. Fabrics held their shape. Colours didn’t fade after two washes. Clothes didn’t demand attention; they earned trust over time. That’s where Marks & Spencer quietly changed the game for me, without announcing it or trying to sound revolutionary.
Once you’ve worn something that behaves well, you lose patience for items that don’t. I stopped excusing loose seams and awkward fits as “good enough for the price.” Cost-per-wear became instinctive math. I started editing my wardrobe instead of expanding it. Shopping felt less like entertainment and more like maintenance — which, oddly, made it more satisfying.
The ripple effect went beyond retail. I became choosier about services, too. Restaurants. Subscriptions. Even how I spent my time. When quality becomes your baseline in one area, it exposes mediocrity elsewhere. You notice when something is rushed, outsourced, or designed to be disposable. You also start respecting brands and businesses that don’t chase novelty every five minutes.
What struck me most was how unflashy the whole shift was. There was no sense of “treating myself.” Just consistency, clarity, and fewer regrets. I wasn’t buying more; I was replacing less. That’s a very different relationship with consumption, and one that feels more adult than aspirational.
Home and everyday items came next — bedding, towels, small comforts you only notice when they’re bad. Better materials changed how long things stayed in rotation. Things stopped feeling temporary. That sense of permanence, even in small domestic details, has a calming effect. It’s easier to focus when your environment isn’t quietly disappointing you.
Marks & Spencer shows up here again, not as a lifestyle fantasy but as a reliable constant. There’s something grounding about knowing exactly what you’re getting, week after week. No algorithm chasing your attention. No reinvention for the sake of headlines. Just incremental improvements that compound over time.
The irony is that this habit didn’t make me spend wildly. If anything, it made me more conservative. I ask harder questions now: Will this still work six months from now? Will I resent replacing it? Is this solving a real need or just filling a gap in my attention span?
That mindset bleeds into everything. Work. Commitments. Even relationships. When you get used to things that respect your time and money, you start offering the same respect back — and expecting it in return.
I still shop elsewhere. I still compromise. But I have a north star now. A quiet benchmark shaped by repetition, not hype. Marks & Spencer didn’t sell me a new identity; it nudged me into noticing what quality actually feels like when it’s part of your routine, not a rare indulgence.
And once you notice that — really notice it — going back is harder than you think.
