Walk into any high street store, and the message is clear: you fit the clothes, not the other way around. Being six feet tall and trying to find a pair of jeans that actually fit a woman's body will teach you that faster than anything.
When I spent a year in Hong Kong, something shifted. I watched a new generation treat luxury logos like high fashion — shiny, mass-produced things dressed up in expensive packaging. I kept thinking: what happened to the couture? The uniqueness? The idea that a garment was made for a person, not a market segment?
The fashion industry is wasteful on a scale most of us prefer not to think about. But I couldn't look away. The landfills. The textile bins spilling over. The sheer volume of it. I was sickened, not just by the industry, but by my own part in it: my wardrobe, my consumption, my waste. Something had to change.
Fortunately, I found Fabricademy. I read the description, and something in me lit up. I had found these people who had been asking the same questions as me, long before I knew to ask. Researchers, educators, makers. Creating a space where ancient traditions meet new technology. Where the future of fashion is happening, one experiment at a time. The next day, I told my family that if they'll take me, I'll go. I dove straight into the deep end with nothing but instinct, and Amsterdam opened its arms.
On the 16th of September, I walked into a 16th-century castle in the centre of Amsterdam, through the stone walks, and my world was turned upside down. Every week, a portal to my imagination was unlocked. From learning about natural dyes, bio fabrication, to 3D printing on textiles. Each week brought many different attributes to a better future. I must say I was walking blind; I had no previous experience in the design or even textile world. I had only just begun my sewing journey, but that didn't matter. If you have an interest and show up, I truly believe you can do anything. There is no need to confine ourselves, putting personalities on what we do and the careers we choose to go into.
There was one thing that stuck out to me. That was the beautiful world of biofabrication.
Biofabrication is the process of growing materials using living organisms such as bacteria, fungi, algae, or plant cells rather than extracting or synthesising them from chemical/animal sources.
Instead of drilling for oil to make polyester, or raising livestock for leather, biofabrication works with nature's own building blocks. Mycelium (the root network of mushrooms) can be grown into a leather-like material. Algae can be processed into dyes or flexible films. Bacteria can produce cellulose fibres stronger than steel by weight.
It's still early. Costs are high, scale is limited, and industrial infrastructure largely doesn't exist yet. But the science is sound, the materials are real, and the people building this field are serious.
The key distinction is that these materials are grown, not made. That means they can be designed to biodegrade, to absorb carbon during production, and to leave no toxic residue at the end of life. It's a different relationship between making things and the living world.
For the last three months of the course, we have had to focus on our own thing. My mind was solely focused on bio fabrication, bio design and regenerative materials. And that is when the experimentation began.
It was definitely a tumultuous ride. The first two months were all about failing and making mistakes. There is no shame in it; it is how we learn.
I solidify my project with the concept first. I wanted to make something matriarchal, something that represented the land. The femininity of nature. Mother of the earth, Pachamama. That is when my project was born, She Who Holds the Ground. It is based on my beliefs that we share a universal connection to nature. The Earth is not a resource. It is a relationship. I wanted to make something that embodied that.
So I started growing. I grew grass — originally chasing the roots. I wanted to harvest them, shape them, build something structural from living material. However, growth doesn't follow instructions. What came back was unpredictable. Decaying in places, thriving in others. The roots weren't ready to become what I had planned. So I listened.
That is when the grass itself became the material. I tested different ways to make it work. Different binders, different ratios, different processes. Until one felt right.
Every day, I was tending to something living. Watering it. Watching it grow. That act alone- showing up for something rooted in the earth, even from inside four walls- grounded me. It connected me to nature in a way I hadn't expected. There's a reason the old saying holds: nature never hurries, yet everything gets accomplished. For once, we are the ones who must be patient. Let nature set the pace. And when we listen, really listen, to what other living systems need, that's when something shifts.
Humans aren't the only ones we should be designing for. The materials we make outlast us, travel further than we intend, and accumulate in places we never see. It doesn't have to be this way. Slowing consumption, taking only what's needed, closing the loop on what we make, none of this is radical. It's just paying attention.
At this stage of the project, I had made different bio materials out of grass, but the one I truly fell in love with was grass paper. It was something about the process, the slow, rhythmic-like movements. Collecting the grass, okra sifting through the mesh fabric, and hearing the soft pitter of the water reaching the pail. The finish was fragile, delicate; it had changed form, yet you could still see the land.
This thin, breakable piece of paper was never going to become the garment I had imagined. I tried layering, adding gelatine to fix it into place. It wasn't going to work. Until two things found me. Konnyaku starch, derived from the devil's tongue plant. Coated onto the grass paper, it strengthened it, softened it. Changed its nature without erasing it. And momigami. An ancient Japanese tradition of kneading paper with your hands, over and over, until what feels like it should break, doesn't. Until something fragile becomes something strong. Until paper moves like fabric. Flexible. Durable. Still wild. Still itself. The paper had turned into fabric, and it sewed like a dream. With a couple of weeks to the final exhibition, I was seeing the bright shining light which had definitely been fading, beaming right in front of my eyes.
Once you realise the beauty and potential that flowers, plants, and herbs hold in terms of colours, you will see everything differently. (I would start collecting your red onion skins now). A chunk of your 'waste' can be given a new lease of life in this modern day. Our ancestors, oh, they knew. We seemed to have lost this information somewhere down the line, that the land throws colour in every direction, an infinite rainbow full of infinite possibilities.
Most clothes today are dyed using synthetic dyes derived from petrochemicals, a process developed in the 19th century and barely changed in principle since. It is water-hungry, chemical-heavy, and largely hidden from view. A single kilogram of fabric can require up to 150 litres of water to dye. That water absorbs heavy metals, acids, and unfixed dye, and is then discharged, often under-treated, into local rivers and groundwater. The fashion industry accounts for an estimated 20% of global industrial water pollution. Much of it comes from dyeing. The problem isn't just what goes into the water. It's what stays in the fabric. Many synthetic dyes contain azo compounds that can break down into carcinogens over time. Fixing agents, used to lock colour into fibre, frequently contain toxic compounds of their own. And because dye never fully bonds to fabric, a portion washes off with every laundry cycle, passing through drainage systems and into the wider environment. So, will someone please tell me: if it's not only bad for the planet but also for ourselves, why are we still using it? Alternatives have been around forever, bio-based dyes grown from bacteria, fungi, and plants. And more recently, some new tech is being developed. Waterless dyeing using supercritical CO₂. Digital printing that applies colour only where it's needed, with almost no waste. Some of these are beginning to scale. Most are still at the edges of the industry.
To finish off the garment made from grass, okra, and coated with konnyaku. I wanted to dye the accessories using weld for a vibrant yellow, and hollyhock for a deep, quiet brown. Finishing it with a dip in an iron bath, which shifted everything. It darkened it, grounded it, gave it weight. The outcome was not just a garment but more of a second skin. An armour. Grown by me and the earth itself.
Walking in those doors in September, I had no real understanding of the depth of the textile world and design. I can't say for certain that after 6 months I have all the answers, but I am proud to say that I am leaving with a completely transformed view of the world. Of what fashion can be. What materials can be. Of what is even possible when you slow down and listen.
I am excited to be going into the future with that. Creating my own pieces. Finding collaborators who care about the same things. Really trying to shift something in this big, wasteful, beautiful world of fashion. And bringing as many people on that journey as I can.
The possibilities are real, and the materials exist now. Yes, sustainable alternatives cost more today, but that's simply the economics of early adoption: low demand keeps supply expensive. The answer isn't to wait for prices to fall on their own. It's to create the demand that brings them down. Walk into a shop and ask for it. Talk about it. Wear it. The people working on these solutions are extraordinary, and the science is already there. What's missing is noise.
So make some.