You clean out the closet, fill a bag with shirts you never wear, and drop it at a charity bin. It feels like a small win for your home and for the planet, but research suggests many donations still end up as trash, just somewhere else.
Across the places studied, the share of donated clothing exported ranged from 33 percent to 97 percent, and global textile waste is estimated at about 101 million U.S. tons a year (about 92 million metric tons).
That matters because textiles are not only a waste headache. The fashion and textiles sector is also tied to climate pollution, with estimates that it accounts for 2 percent to 8 percent of global greenhouse gas emissions. So, where does your donation really go, and what would it take to stop the cycle?
The donation detour
A Nature Cities study mapped what happens to unwanted textiles across nine wealthy cities, including Austin and Toronto, plus Amsterdam, Berlin, Geneva, Luxembourg, Manchester, Melbourne, and Oslo.
The researchers drew on policy documents, interviews, and published literature to trace how clothing moves once consumers are done with it. The pattern was consistent across places that look very different on a map.
Most donations are sorted, and the best items can be resold locally. But charities receive far more than they can realistically sell, so large volumes are baled and shipped overseas, or discarded when they are too damaged or too low quality.
Norway shows how extreme this can get, with OsloMet researchers reporting that 97 percent of collected textiles are exported out of the country.
Charities at the breaking point
Charity organizations were built around social support and fundraising, not around managing a modern flood of clothing. Study co-author Dr. Yassie Samie of RMIT University said “we’re used to charities doing the heavy lifting,” even though they have not been able to keep up with the volume for a long time.
When donation bins turn into the default “textile disposal” option, the burden lands on groups that were never meant to be waste managers.
What is driving the surge is not a mystery. The study points to overconsumption and oversupply, and charities and collectors have reported a steady drop in garment quality over the past 15 to 20 years, which cuts resale potential.
If a shirt pills after a few washes, it is not a great candidate for a second owner, and it is often a terrible candidate for recycling into something new.
The scale is staggering, too. RMIT’s summary of the research notes that the world generates about 101 million U.S. tons of textile waste per year (about 92 million metric tons), and that figure could double by 2030 if current trends continue. It is hard to picture that much fabric, but you can feel it when a “quick closet cleanout” becomes a quarterly habit.
When exports look like recycling
Shipping used clothing abroad can sound like reuse, but it is not a guarantee of a second life. In the cities examined, large flows were exported, while other volumes were landfilled or dumped in the environment, according to the researchers. Is it really recycling if it leaves the community behind?
There is also a local economic twist that many shoppers never see. In Melbourne, the researchers note that charities export high-quality, often vintage, secondhand clothes to Europe, and independent resale businesses end up importing similar items back from Europe or the United States.
The Nature Cities authors also warn that exports can make the problem “invisible” to both the public and to municipalities, which is how a growing waste stream slips through the cracks.
The case for “sufficiency”
One of the most important ideas in the Nature Cities paper is “sufficiency.” It is not a new recycling technology or a better donation bin, but a shift toward buying and owning enough, instead of constantly cycling through more. Think of it like bailing water out of a boat while the hole is still open, you can scoop faster, but you will still sink.
The research frames post-consumer textile waste as a direct result of fashion overproduction and overconsumption, which is why circular strategies can fall short if they ignore the flow coming in at the top. Donation and resale can extend a garment’s life, but they cannot absorb an endless stream of low-cost, low-durability clothing.
If we want “reuse” to be real, the clothes have to be made to last, and we have to be willing to keep wearing them.
What happens next
The study’s policy recommendations push cities to treat textiles as a real waste stream, not a side project for nonprofits. Amsterdam is highlighted as an outlier, because its municipality manages collection and sorting and encourages collection of all textiles, including nonreusable ones.
In the European Union, separate collection systems for used textiles have been required since 2025, a sign that textiles are moving into mainstream waste planning.
Cities can also make reuse easier in everyday ways. Researchers linked to OsloMet point to clothing swap days, repair workshops, and even libraries that loan sewing machines, which can turn “I can’t fix this” into “maybe I can.” Discounts for low-income residents to access repair services can keep more clothing in use and make the sustainable choice less of a luxury.
For households, the advice is both simple and annoyingly hard. Buy less, wear what you already own more often, and choose durability when you do need something new, because donations are not a magic eraser for overbuying.
The study was published on Nature Cities.
