The Weight of What We Wear
When I hear the term “fast fashion,” what comes to mind isn’t just “cheap clothes” or “trends.” It’s the way you learn to consume without thinking. It becomes a habit : always searching for something new, without stopping to ask yourself if you actually need it. As an 18-year-old, I experience it every day: this feeling that you must always stay “updated,” change your style every week, keep up with what you see on Instagram or TikTok. Somewhere along the way, the joy of fashion disappears. It becomes something quick, almost stressful, part of a cycle of consumption that never seems to end. And in the end, what you consume isn’t just clothes, but time, energy, and mental space.
What exhausted me the most about this culture was the excess: the sense that everything is infinite, replaceable, and somehow a bit indifferent. I never saw fashion as something that has to renew itself every three days. To me, it has value when it’s slower, more thoughtful, more personal. Yet the fast fashion world makes you feel you’re never “in” enough, that something about you always needs correction. Saturation is everywhere: on our screens, in our conversations, even in how we improvise our style. My generation lives in a sea of images and information, and somewhere in there, fashion, which could be joy and creativity, becomes a burden.
My awareness of clothing as an environmental issue never came from a single moment of revelation. It built itself slowly. At 13, I started wondering how some clothes could be so cheap compared to handmade or second-hand pieces I saw in small shops. I asked questions, read, and observed our habits: why do we buy so often? Why do we get bored so quickly? Why do we throw away things barely worn? Eventually, I understood that clothes aren’t just trends - they are objects with an impact. And that’s when I felt the need to position myself, not theoretically, but through action.
When I talk about “fashion with purpose,” I don’t imagine campaigns or big ideas that change the world. I see it more humbly, in the everyday. It’s the small, almost invisible gestures that slowly change how we relate to our clothes. Wearing something you loved two years ago and feeling it yours again. Giving time to a piece that may not be “in fashion,” but says something about you. Swapping clothes with a friend. Fixing something ripped instead of throwing it away - not out of ecological virtue, but because it still has life. And, above all, buying more slowly: thinking before adding something to the cart and asking whether you want it because you want it or because you’re supposed to. The goal isn’t perfect consumption or constant consciousness. It’s recovering a relationship with clothes that isn’t superficial. Fashion is a tool for expression, not a tool for pressure - it shouldn’t define us; we should be the ones giving it meaning.