Rethinking Sustainability in Design

It’s not news to anyone that the term “sustainability” has been stretched to its limits. It’s everywhere, plastered across marketing materials, woven into brand narratives, used as a kind of shorthand for doing things “better.” But somewhere along the way, it has started to lose meaning and credibility. The line between genuine effort and greenwashing has become increasingly blurred, and many brands are quietly shifting away from using the term altogether, especially in how they communicate.

Especially when it comes to consumption and products, I keep coming back to a more fundamental thought: if we’re being completely honest, the most sustainable thing we could do is simply produce significantly less, and consume less. During my time working with the UNEP Sustainable Textiles Initiative, this idea of degrowth came up again and again, especially in the context of fashion. And it’s hard to argue against it.

But I also think this needs to be nuanced. There’s a difference between large corporations that overproduce at scale, feeding cycles of excess and disposability, and small, independent businesses that are often extensions of individual creativity. If we were to strip production back entirely, we wouldn’t just reduce impact, we would also lose something essential: a sense of cultural expression, of experimentation, of joy.

So if “doing less” is the most honest answer, the question becomes: what is the next best thing when we do choose to create?

For me, the first instinct was biodegradability. There’s something very direct about it, you take from the earth, use a product, and at the end, it returns back into the soil. The cycle feels intuitive, almost poetic in its simplicity. It offers a kind of clarity that the broader sustainability conversation often lacks.

At the same time, there is another aspect that feels just as important, and at times even in tension with biodegradability: durability. Not just in a physical sense, but also emotionally. Why do we hold onto certain objects for years, even decades? What makes something become part of our lives rather than something we quickly discard?

This is where my thinking started to shift. Durability, both in quality and in emotional connection, can be a powerful form of sustainability in itself. A piece that lasts, that is cared for, repaired, and valued over time, avoids the cycle of constant replacement.

And this is where context becomes essential. Sustainability can’t be one-size-fits-all, it has to respond to the nature of the object itself. For something like furniture, large, complex, and designed to stay with us for years, durability feels like the more meaningful approach. I would never get rid of the art deco nightstand passed down to me from my grandmother, both for its functionality and the memories it brings.

But in other categories, especially those with inherently shorter lifecycles like textiles or certain homeware, biodegradability starts to make more sense. In those cases, designing for a return to the earth can feel like a more honest conclusion (of course, while still maintaining a baseline of physical durability as a non-negotiable).

This contrast between approaches is what intrigues me. Rather than forcing everything under a single definition of sustainability, it opens up the possibility of treating different objects differently, allowing their purpose and lifespan to guide the approach.

In a way, this shift feels freeing. It opens up space to explore more honestly, without trying to simplify something that is inherently complex. It allows me to ask: what does this object need to be? What kind of life should it have? And what happens after that?

As I sit with these thoughts, it becomes clear that sustainability shouldn’t be a buzzword or a label we apply. It should be an invitation, to question, to explore, and to be more honest about the choices we make. Maybe this is less about finding answers, and more about learning how to ask better questions as we move forward.