I used to think sustainability was only for the wealthy.
Growing up, it felt like a lifestyle reserved for a certain income bracket. Anything labeled “organic,” “non-GMO,” or made with natural fibers was always out of reach. Those choices lived in a world I couldn’t access, so I internalized that sustainability wasn’t meant for me.
It was something other people could afford.
BUILDING DESCALZA WITHOUT DESPERDICIANDO
But then I started Descalza.
A brand rooted in preserving our cultural identity while honoring the planet, something the fashion industry isn’t known for. But the way Descalza came to life wasn’t driven by a polished sustainability strategy. It was shaped by what I had.
And who I had.
Instead of manufacturers, I had my mom’s friends, skilled seamstresses whose hands understood fabrics that factories rejected. Materials that were labeled “too delicate” suddenly had a place, because to them, those fabrics felt like home. They knew how to care for them, how to transform them, how to honor them.
So we worked in small batches. Not because it was trendy, but because it was possible.
I leaned into made-to-measure pieces, not because they were positioned as luxury, but because I was afraid of getting it wrong. I didn’t want someone to invest in something that didn’t fit. I didn’t want to waste the fabric our artisans worked hard on. So everything was created one piece at a time.
Every cut, every stitch, every press carried a person in mind.
And the remnants? They mattered too.
Because if they didn’t, I could already hear my mom’s voice reminding me that I was desperdiciando, wasting something that still had life left in it.
SUSTAINABILITY WAS NEVER OUT OF OUR REACH
Without realizing it, Descalza became a slow fashion brand.
Bespoke. Handmade. Thoughtful. Intentional.
All the words I once associated with a lifestyle I thought I couldn’t afford.
But the truth is, it was never out of reach.
It was already mine.
I didn’t grow up with “sustainable brands,” but I grew up with the values they represented. I learned how to make things last out of necessity. I learned to be resourceful because there was no other option. We moved slowly because mistakes were expensive. We relied on the community because, in many ways, we had no choice but to build our own support systems. We were immigrants. In the eyes of society, we didn't exist; therefore, we weren't allowed to ask for help.
RECLAIMING SPACES IN OUR OWN VOICE
My intention was never to build a “sustainable” brand.
I wanted to build something that looked like me. Something that honored where I came from.
And in doing that, I realized something powerful:
We’ve been sustainable long before it became a trend.
It just wasn’t labeled that way.
It just didn’t look like what we were taught sustainability should look like. What I thought was never meant for me ended up encompassing the values my Salvadoran mother taught me.
That realization changed everything.
Because it made me question who gets to define value. Who gets to name movements? Who gets to be seen as “conscious,” “ethical,” or “intentional”?
And more importantly, it reminded me that we have to tell our own stories.
We are not outside of sustainability.
We are the foundation of it.
Our traditions, our resourcefulness, our care for what we have, those are not limitations. They are wisdom.
So no, sustainability isn’t something we have to aspire to.
It’s something we’ve been practicing all along.
And now, we get to reclaim it on our own terms, in our own voice, and in a way that honors both where we come from and where we’re going. We are sustainable. We are immigrants, and both can coincide.
Love, Caro
If you're interested in the clothing pieces we make, click here to see our current collection.
