I bought 72 things from Amazon in 2024. The range of items runs the gamut: A replacement basket for the air fryer, dozens of children’s books, an XL cone for my dog’s post-surgery care, kids’ birthday presents, skincare products I gave up on, pacifiers for my newborn twins before I remembered stashing some extras in the diaper bag, and lots of forgettable items in between.
I was feeling uncomfortable about my consumption, my carbon footprint, and how second-nature buying on Amazon had become for me. I relied on the site to instantly cross off items on my to-do list.
The lack of friction before purchasing became an issue
It felt like the site’s “1-Click checkout ” feature evolved into its own kind of mechanism in my brain chemistry: I was ordering things without doing any of the logical thinking that usually happens with in-store shopping, and I knew that was all by design. Making a purchase no longer had friction: Free shipping, a stored credit card and address, infinite stock, and a tantalizing algorithm all make shopping anywhere else feel like a chore.
When it comes to Amazon, buying begets more buying, and I was getting sick of my high level of participation in that kind of ceaseless consumer culture and of funding a company with values that don’t align with my own.
I decided to stop shopping on Amazon
So I challenged myself to see how long I could go without the platform, and after a month, the experiment became easier. The rush of not buying was addictive. I’d found adding back in some of the friction to online shopping — whether by deciding the thing wasn’t worth the shipping fees or feeling too lazy to walk across my apartment to get my credit card — put the power back in my hands.
I started to want for less, and my brain got the space it needed to recalibrate, adding logic back into my purchasing decisions. I’d ask, did I really need it? Could I borrow it? Did we have an alternative at home? With friction, these questions finally had the space to resurface. And I’d started to feel smug, living out my personal values every day by resisting the corporate machine.
And then I had another baby.
Having my third kid brought me back to Amazon, but I think more about purchases now
Throughout my pregnancy, I was nervous about how I would manage the newborn stage without that infamous one-day delivery. At that point, my twin toddlers had outgrown the baby phase, where every month feels like a new experiment in which you’ll try anything to survive. Three-year-olds can do without. But when you’re exhausted and hormonal, and the baby won’t sleep anywhere but under your chin, getting your hands on the swaddle that your mom friend swears by feels positively dire.
So, after a 449-day run, I surrendered back to Amazon.
If you’re wondering what did me in, the answer is: Bottle nipples. Did you know that some nipples have different-sized holes — or “liquid flow speeds” — to control how fast or slow a baby can suck milk out of their bottles? It’s a very specific and boring piece of information that isn’t reflected on the shelves of CVS. My dear infant would only drink out of a size 2, we quickly learned, and so I chose my child over my morals and added the nips to my cart. And while I was online anyway, I also bought dishwasher detergent, additional bottles, and some extra burp cloths. Thrilling stuff. I felt like a failure.
I’m hoping that once my tiny baby becomes a little bit bigger, I’ll be able to end my reliance on Amazon once and for all. But even now, back on the platform, I’ve been able to practice some of the insight I picked up during my Amazon abstinence.
For example, if there’s something I need, I’ll check with neighbors and friends before scouring the site. I recently scored a jar of pureed prunes from a friend whose baby has moved on to solids. I also choose secondhand first, whenever possible. Aside from hygienic products, everything my baby needs already exists in the world. A resale store near me, Once Upon a Child, sells 10 onesies for $10; when my child outgrows them, I can resell them to the store and use the earnings toward the next size.
One of the great joys of my motherhood journey has been helping other parents avoid buying things I can give them. It is mutually beneficial, as they don’t have to buy an overpriced motorized baby swing, and I can reclaim some floor space in my apartment. Plus, it’s a lovely feeling to witness your best friend’s baby in the dress your daughter was wearing just a few years before.
The onslaught of baby products that will enter your social feeds the instant your egg gets fertilized is overwhelming. Marketing can often convince you that you need a certain item to be a good parent. Of course, this isn’t true. Before adding anything to my cart, I try to remember to take a beat: Do I really need the thing, and do I really need it right now? I’ve found that hardly anything is urgent, and with 1-day shipping times, if something does end up seeming essential, I’ll be able to get it.
Relying less on Amazon isn’t just for me; it’s something I’m trying to model for my kids. In a world where you can access just about any material good with the click of a button, I want to show them the difference between needs and wants, the importance of patience and delayed gratification, and the satisfying pursuit of making do with what you already have. These are life skills I have not perfected, and likely never will. But I owe it to the kids — and myself — to at least give it a try.
