Fashion is often seen as fleeting trends that come and go, colours that rise and fall in popularity, and silhouettes that are declared “in” one season and “out” the next. But beneath the surface, fashion tells the story of how we live, what we value, and how we see ourselves. The clothes we wear are more than fabric stitched together, they are culture, craft, memory, and identity. Yet somewhere along the way, fashion became one of the most wasteful industries in the world. Today, over 100 billion garments are produced every year, and more than 92 million tonnes of textile waste end up discarded annually. The culprit? A system that has dominated modern industry for decades: the take-make-dispose model. This model is as linear as it sounds. We take raw materials, often non-renewable ones, make them into garments at astonishing speed and scale, and then dispose of them when they no longer serve us, or when the trend cycle demands something new. Unlike nature, which thrives in cycles of renewal and regeneration, the fashion industry has been operating on a straight line, one that leads directly to landfills and incinerators. But here’s the truth we rarely acknowledge; this wasn’t always the way fashion worked. In fact, for most of human history, clothing was treasured, repaired, repurposed, and kept in circulation for as long as possible.
A Time When Clothes Were Precious
In Sri Lanka, as in many cultures, garments were not disposable. Clothes held stories, not just utility. Discarding them thoughtlessly would have been unimaginable. Even when fabric wore thin, it was rarely wasted. Old saris were turned into pillowcases or household cloths. Scraps of handloom were stitched together into patchwork, carrying pieces of family history into new forms. And it wasn’t just in Sri Lanka. Across the world, before the industrial revolution, textiles were some of the most prized possessions in a household. They were costly to produce because the labour of spinning, dyeing, and weaving was painstakingly slow. A single garment represented weeks, sometimes months, of human effort. As a result, fabric was treated with reverence. Clothes were patched, mended, re-dyed, and reshaped into new garments. Nothing was wasted, because nothing could be wasted. In Europe, for instance, wealthy families often handed down garments, altering them to suit new fashions or smaller frames. In Japan, the tradition of boro textiles turned worn-out garments into patchwork layers that were handed down through generations, creating pieces that were both practical and beautiful. In India, the tradition of kantha stitching transformed old saris into quilts, an art form born from necessity, but elevated into heritage. For centuries, fashion was not just about self-expression. It was about resourcefulness, continuity, and care.
The Industrial Revolution: Speeding Up, Using More
The industrial revolution in the 18th and 19th centuries changed everything. Suddenly, machines could spin and weave at unprecedented speeds. What once took weeks could be achieved in hours. Clothing became cheaper, more accessible, and more abundant. On one hand, this democratised fashion, allowing more people to participate in self-expression through clothing. On the other hand, it introduced a dangerous new idea: disposability. By the 20th century, clothing was mass-produced and widely available. But the true turning point came with the rise of fast fashion in the late 20th and early 21st centuries. Brands discovered that if they accelerated trend cycles, encouraging consumers to buy more frequently at lower prices, profits would soar. And they did. This model, churning out new designs weekly or even daily, redefined how we relate to fashion. Clothes were no longer crafted to last; they were designed to be consumed quickly and discarded just as fast. The emotional and cultural connection between wearer and garment was severed, replaced by a transactional relationship: see it, buy it, wear it once, throw it away.
The Mountains We Leave Behind
The consequences of this model are staggering. Every second, the equivalent of one garbage truck full of textiles is either burned or dumped into a landfill. Many of these landfills are in countries far removed from the glossy storefronts where the clothes were first purchased. Ghana’s Kantamanto market, for example, is flooded daily with bales of second-hand clothing from the Global North; much of it, unsellable waste. What doesn’t find a new home ends up polluting rivers, soil, and oceans. Synthetic fibres like polyester, which make up more than 60% of today’s textiles, don’t biodegrade easily. A polyester blouse might break down in 200 years, long after its wearer is gone. Meanwhile, microfibres from synthetic fabrics are washing into our oceans with every laundry cycle, infiltrating marine ecosystems and even the food we eat. This is the true cost of the take-make-dispose model. The affordability of a five-dollar T-shirt is paid for not at the cash register, but in the environment, in the dignity of garment workers, and in the piles of waste that will outlive us all.
The Cultural Cost of Waste
Perhaps the greatest tragedy, however, is not just environmental but cultural. In our rush for cheap abundance, we’ve lost our connection to the stories behind what we wear. Clothes have become commodities, stripped of meaning. When we replace a handwoven lace blouse, a piece of artistry, with a synthetic top that barely survives three washes, we’re not just losing quality. We’re losing heritage. We’re losing the quiet dignity of craft, the stories of the weavers, dyers, and makers. We’re losing the possibility of garments that carry memory. This disconnection makes it easier to waste. After all, it’s easier to throw away something that feels meaningless.
Looking Back to Move Forward
But history also offers us hope. The solution to fashion’s waste problem isn’t just in futuristic technologies or radical new business models. It’s in remembering the wisdom of our ancestors. Circular fashion, a system where materials are reused, garments are repaired, and waste is minimised may sound like a revolutionary new idea. But really, it’s an old one. It’s the way our grandmothers lived. It’s the way our culture dressed before disposability became fashionable. In a circular model, clothes are designed to last, made to be repaired, and kept in use as long as possible. When they can no longer be worn, they are repurposed or recycled into new fibres. Waste is not an after-thought, it is designed out of the system entirely. It’s not just about sustainability. It’s about dignity. When a garment is made with care and kept with care, it honours the human hands and natural resources that brought it to life.
A Different Kind of Fashion Statement
True style has never been about keeping up with every new trend. It has always been about longevity, about garments that survive not just seasons but stories. The most fashionable pieces are often the ones that carry memory, history, and resilience. The sari that belonged to your mother or grandmother. The jacket you’ve repaired three times. A hand-woven shawl you bought two decades ago. These are not just clothes, they are companions, and they remind us that fashion can exist without waste. The “take-make-dispose” model is failing us, but we are not trapped in it. As consumers, as makers, as storytellers, we have the power to shift our relationship with clothing. To treasure instead of discard. To repair instead of replace. To live with less, but value more.
Beyond the Seams
Every garment carries a choice. We can choose the straight line of take-make-dispose, or the circle of renew, repair, and sustain. One leads to mountains of waste. The other leads to garments with meaning, cultures with continuity, and a planet with a future. The waste we wear does not have to define us. If we listen to the lessons of our past, fashion can once again be about more than trends - it can be about memory, dignity, and care. Because beyond the seams of every garment lies a question: will we wear waste, or will we wear wisdom?
