The PULSE - Q+A With DeBrand
How many lives a garment can have after what they perceive as the “last wear.” Folks tend to think of clothing they own as either wearable or ready for disposal, when in reality, there are dozens of possible paths in-between. Every day, we see items that can be repaired, reused, upcycled and rema…
OCTober 01, 2026
The PULSE: Q&A with DeBrand
Lina Gomez Londono, Chief Operating Officer, Debrand
Most people never see what happens to a garment once it leaves a wardrobe. You do. What surprises people most about what you see?
How many lives a garment can have after what they perceive as the “last wear.” Folks tend to think of clothing they own as either wearable or ready for disposal, when in reality, there are dozens of possible paths in-between. Every day, we see items that can be repaired, reused, upcycled and remanufactured, recycled, or transformed into entirely different products with the right information and next-life pathways. We’ve processed garments that have clearly been on great adventures and still have value. In many ways, a well-made garment is like a cat: it seems to have far more lives than anyone expects.
A key focus of this report is how durability and material composition work together to extend a garment’s life. What are you looking for when you decide a garment’s next life, and how much of that decision is made by the material itself?
We look at both condition and composition. Condition tells us what a garment can do today. Material tells us what it can become tomorrow. A durable garment made from quality materials may be perfect for reuse, while a well-worn item may be a strong candidate for fiber-to-fiber recycling. Material composition plays a huge role because it directly affects what recycling technologies can process and what outcomes are possible for the garment when it can no longer be recirculated. The better we understand the fabric, trims, and construction, the better we can direct it toward its highest-value next life instead of a catch-all final destination.
What should brands be building into a garment now to give it the best path to having a second, third, fourth life and beyond?
Design your garments like they are going to have a long and interesting biography. For them to be able to tell a story, the design process needs to start with durability but then need to include elements that make products easier to repair, identify, sort, and eventually recycle. Thoughtful material choices, fewer unnecessary blends, replaceable components, and clear digital or physical product information can all help the writer put together the story. Every garment comes with a story, but most of us only get to read the first chapter. If clothing could keep a diary, I’d happily read what mine would share: awkward firsts, missed flights, training runs and bike rides, and the occasional coffee stain. Great circular systems help ensure those stories don’t end when a garment leaves a person. The more we know about what a product is made of and how it’s constructed, the better we can help it continue its journey in someone else’s story.
Looking ahead, what has to be true for a genuinely circular system to work, and what feels closest to being solved?
For a truly circular system to work, all parts of the value chain need to be connected. Designers, brands’ leadership team, collectors, sorters, recyclers, technology providers, policymakers, and consumers all have a role to play. No single company or part of the value chain can solve this alone. What feels closest to coming together is the growing alignment around collaboration and innovation. The technology pipeline is advancing rapidly, and we’re seeing incredible progress in recycling solutions, material traceability, and next-life logistics. The challenge is scaling those solutions and connecting them into a seamless system. The good news is that the industry is moving from asking “Is circularity possible?” to asking “How fast can we make it happen?”
What’s the oldest thing in your wardrobe that you still wear and why has it survived?
A black, nylon bomber jacket that originally belonged to my grandfather. My mom passed it down to me, and it still has his initials on the inside. The jacket isn’t as bright or crisp as it once was, but that’s part of what I love about it. You can see the years of life woven into it, the places it’s been, the memories it’s carried, and the care that’s kept it going. I don’t wear it as often, but when I do, I can’t help but feel closer to my family in Colombia.
What’s the most spectacular way a piece of clothing has failed on you?
A pair of sandals once chose the middle of a night out in Austin to call it quits. A strap snapped on our walk home from a comedy show, leaving me hopping down the sidewalk until I finally admitted defeat and took a lime scooter back to our place.