Will nostalgia be the defining aesthetic of the 2020s?

The year is 2025. Kylie Jenner is back on Snapchat and using the name “King Kylie” again. You just scrolled past a TikTok of a fashion boy meandering about in an outfit only the mind of 2015 Jason Derulo could’ve assembled. The scroll continues, and a 2005 photo of Kate Moss at Glastonbury appears, illustrating the military jacket revival of 2025. It’s not long before you’re confronted by the 2006 “Hedi Boy”, lighting up a cigarette in archival Dior Homme, soundtracked by a song from The Hellp. The hashtag “indie sleaze revival” is hidden in the comments.

Moving away from the screen doesn’t help either. On the runway, Maison Margiela has reintroduced the Future sneaker, 14 years after it was first launched. In London, Topshop just hosted its first catwalk in seven years; in LA, the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show brought back bouncy blowouts and millennial side parts. Evidently, the past is in demand, with nostalgia taking centre stage across fashion’s media. After all, trends go out of style only to make a comeback, don’t they? But where past generations have had specific eras they’ve revisited, it looks as though, currently, we’re reflecting on every single one of them at once.

“These days, perhaps because of the rapid advancements in technology and our increasing access to information, those trend cycles are shorter and we see trends repeat way more often,” says Elektra Kotsoni, deputy editor at Vogue Business. Truth be told, it’s hard to let go of anything while you’re clawing right at it – the archival nature of the internet allows for much less to slip through the cracks of time. Pair this with platforms like Vinted or eBay, where the past is ready for purchase just a few clicks away, and you’ve got the perfect recipe for trends with no beginning or end.

This poses a question. As fun as fashion Groundhog Day may be, does the thrill come at the cost of cultural inertia and homogenisation? Keep turning around long enough and you’ll only be moving in circles. We’ve proven we’re stuck in a loop online, with the Mannequin Challenge, hoverboards and the ‘OG Instagram aesthetic’ already making a comeback this year. In fashion, we’ve already witnessed the supposed return of early-aughts Y2K, mid-00s McBling, mid-00s indie sleaze, early 2010s #swag, 2014 Tumblr, 2016 baddie, McQueen skull scarves, Isabel Marant wedged sneakers – and that’s in only half a decade. But when a kind of culture built on repetition is fostered, we begin to lose any real sense of risk, imagination or progress.

In a way, the very idea of subculture is blurred when reduced to only its visuals. Where trends once emerged from tight-knit communities, now entire eras get codified as identities themselves. Are you mid-00s indie sleaze, 2010s #swag or a 2016 baddie? The distinctions feel almost performative, a flattened, curated persona, rather than a collection of cultural signifiers. “Designers engaged with history through lived experience or subcultural memory,” points out Professor Andrew Groves, director of the Westminster Menswear Archive at the University of Westminster. “Now it’s accessed through an infinite digital archive available on demand. So, what might seem like nostalgia is often a form of convenience, an algorithmic shortcut to superficial meaning.”

This shift in how history is accessed changes not just what designers create, but how we as consumers experience style. Copy-and-paste fashion choices are applauded within the echo chamber. A TikTok of a #SWAG snapback and wedged sneakers outfit soundtracked by a Drake song you haven’t heard since school is practically engineered to go viral. Trend recycling becomes cultural currency, evoking adolescent emotions to drive engagement and clicks.

It’s easier to pay homage to something that’s been well received than to come up with something new and original 

Still, you may argue that trend cycles have always repeated. Kotsoni notes that trends “traditionally recur every 20 years, as those coming-of-age reach for the styles they idolised but couldn’t wear as children”. Kids born in the 90s rediscovered grunge through thrifted punk pieces left over from the 70s, only for the 90s to resurface again in the 2010s, fueling a resurgence marked by mom jeans, chokers, and an endless stream of BuzzFeed articles on ‘How to dress like a 90s kid’. But today, in the age of TikTok, we aren’t pulling from the back of our older sister’s wardrobes – we’re exposed to a visual abundance of fashion archives, decontextualised and stripped from their cultural landscapes. The result? A convoluted fashion cycle, with entire aesthetics from multiple eras resurfacing simultaneously.

For consumers, this nostalgia can offer emotional comfort, a warm embrace in times of instability. For designers, it provides creative comfort, a safe space to revisit what once worked. For shareholders, it churns out a reliably performing product for a zeitgeist haunted by the past. A 2016 summer bestseller resurfaces in 2025, and it’s not just the item that returns, but the cultural memory of that summer along with it.

“It’s easier to pay homage to something that’s been well received than to come up with something new and original,” says Kelly Acheampong of Undiscovered, a platform highlighting emerging culture and brands. “That comes with the risk of not getting the same love.” Design language doesn’t exist in a vacuum. With creatives under constant scrutiny, playing it safe has become a natural defence. In the past, you could turn off the TV or bin a magazine spread. Today, an Instagram Reels comment section ensures there’s no escaping public trial, pushing designers towards archives in an ‘if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’ approach. It’s an inevitable price to pay for the internet’s apparent democratisation.

So how does one break out of the loop? Phill Connors escaped Groundhog Day through genuine selflessness – but how would that look for fashion? Well, for starters, nostalgia – and, most importantly, this free-for-all access to fashion’s past – is not all bad. The internet has unlocked archives once reserved for insiders, not only giving new access to fashion’s past but also resurfacing material long forgotten, allowing young designers to study, reference, and remix it without needing industry approval or backing. This newfound liberation transforms archives from a private indulgence into a shared, communal phenomenon, reshaping how we’re permitted to engage with the past. What was once an insider’s club has been made for the world to see and be influenced by, from YouTube creators dissecting Alexander McQueen’s creative process to Pinterest vaults overflowing with 90s runway looks.

This stylistic déjà vu may provide comfort in trying times. Even Y2K butterfly tops and low-rise jeans can offer escapism when faced with uncertainty. That said, it can also act as a cushion, a way to hide from the world and avoid change. When relied upon too heavily, it risks turning fashion into a loop of repetition rather than a space for growth or innovation. Fashion has always been political too, from Thierry Mugler’s groundbreaking depictions of queer culture in the 90s, to Willy Chavarria’s vocal support of migrant rights today. Yet an obsession with the past risks a kind of political inertia, diverting attention from the social issues of today and discouraging the formation of new ideas (in this sense, it’s the other side of the coin to AI, both recycling rather than creating, consuming what exists instead of engaging critically or imagining something new).

Maybe it’s up to Gen Alpha to completely break from the loop. Gen Z has already shown signs of moving beyond mere aesthetics: a FirstInsight survey reveals that 62 per cent prefer to buy from sustainable brands, and 72 per cent consider social and environmental values when making purchases – a surprising feat for a generation defined by Covid-era Shein hauls, so extreme that France even introduced an anti-fast fashion law to rein them in. As for now, the challenge remains: nostalgia can soothe, but if it becomes a refuge from consciousness, it ensures that nothing changes, and the past simply keeps repeating itself.