Nicole McLaughlin believes anything can become a shoe.

Upcycled Patagonia fleeces work well if you’re making a slipper—but so do tennis balls, badminton birdies, crossword puzzle booklets, balloons, golf visors, and packing peanuts. An egg carton makes an excellent sandal, and the baffles of a beach ball can quickly become a striking rainbow clog.

But why limit yourself to shoes when you can also make pants from napkins or backpacks, and bras from lemon squeezers or croissants? McLaughlin, a fashion designer, artist, and gorpcore icon based in Boulder, Colorado, has made a jacket from oven mitts—and an oven mitt from a loaf of bread. She’s turned cereal bags (still filled with Froot Loops and corn flakes) into a vest and sewn a puffy jacket from bubble wrap. Each of her garments is quirky and evocative—and has the power to chip away at the very foundations of the outdoor gear world.

Like any arm of the fashion universe, outdoor gear is a high-production, high-expense, high-waste kind of industry. Some brands are trying to change that, but the process has been slow and cumbersome. McLaughlin’s designs, however, cut through all the marketing chatter and straight to the core of the issue: they point out, loudly, that there’s no excuse for waste. Old or even damaged gear doesn’t have to be discarded. Instead, it can live on indefinitely through upcycling.

Upcycling is part craft, part raw imagination. It’s the practice of refurbishing an old item until it’s once again chic and useful. Over the last few years, the upcycling movement has gone mainstream—and some of the world’s biggest companies are catching on.

Today, the 32-year-old McLaughlin has worked with brands ranging from Coach and Hermès to Merrell and Hoka. She’s been featured in Forbes’s Thirty Under Thirty, and is a sought-after speaker and workshop instructor. But her biggest achievement is the cultural change she’s helped affect: through her witty, tongue-in-cheek designs, she’s helped turn upcycling from a stodgy homeschoolers’ craft into an edgy and provocative response to consumerism at large.

Given McLaughlin’s résumé, I expected her to be sophisticated and reserved, in an out-of-touch, artsy sort of way. But what I found when I visited her in Boulder was an unassuming woman in plain clothing, bright-eyed and warm and ready with a smile. When she opened the door to her studio—a small warehouse space off a dirt road—she was dressed in baggy jeans and gingham sneakers, and her gray hoodie sported a fuzzy zipper charm in the shape of a cartoon character. She played with it while she talked, her fingers turning the little character this way and that.

“Come on in,” she said. “Did you have trouble finding it?” The studio is in Niwot, a one-street rural outpost well northeast of Boulder proper. So yes, I did. In fact, I’d been lost for ten full minutes before knocking on the weathered door. But I lied. And then, between spurts of showing me around the studio, McLaughlin told me about her life.

Sometimes, when you’re a young person trying to choose a career, an adult will give you this guidance: “Do the thing that would make your eight-year-old self proud.” It’s good advice—though often impractical for those of us who dreamed of becoming race-car drivers or astronauts. Few people are able to truly self-actualize in this way. But McLaughlin, somehow, has.

Growing up, McLaughlin was an artsy kid, the daughter of a New Jersey carpenter and an interior designer. She was also a dedicated member of the early 2000s skate scene. A fan of hardcore punk music, she had an anti-authoritarian attitude toward homework, and an obsession with chunky skate shoes that would later become a hallmark of her upcycling style. Eventually, McLaughlin wandered into a four-year graphic design program at East Stroudsburg University of Pennsylvania. Then, after graduation, things started to get interesting.

For three years, McLaughlin lived a double life. She was just out of college and trying to prove herself at Reebok’s Massachusetts corporate office, where she’d gotten a gig as a graphic designer. During the day, she’d work long hours, shadowing other employees, placing logos, and sometimes sleeping on the office floor. During nights and weekends, she was mostly alone. Making friends in a new city takes time; McLaughlin was too focused on her career for that. But after a while, she began to realize that placing logos wasn’t exactly keeping her creative mind occupied. She felt stuck. She was approaching creative stagnation.

Then, one night, she snuck into Reebok’s recently vacated offices. There, she discovered mounds of discarded samples and fabric swatches—boxes upon boxes of really expensive trash. She filled a bag, thinking the pieces could be good inspiration for her side projects.

Soon, she was taking her pilfered samples apart, tearing out stitching and prying apart shoes on her bedroom floor. She’d mix and match soles and glue on new pull tabs, straps, and toggles. Held together by adhesive and pins, none of it was wearable; the only goal was to make something that looked cool. Eventually, she started posting photos of her designs on Instagram, a nerve-wracking experience. One—a blue sandal made from the straps of an Ikea tote—racked up several thousand views. For a burgeoning artist with zero product-design experience, it was a major confidence boost.

After some experimentation, McLaughlin gravitated toward vintage sports equipment. There was something playful about the nostalgia of it, and the absurdity of crafting a shoe from a lacrosse stick or basketball. In 2016 she picked up rock climbing, and two years later began tinkering with chalk bags and harnesses. She saw limitless design potential in outdoor gear.

McLaughlin churned out dozens of innovative upcycled designs, one after another, on Instagram. It was a private thing—bedroom projects furtively shared on a faceless page. Her bosses at Reebok had no idea she was doing it. Until one meeting in 2019.

McLaughlin was sitting in a conference room, surrounded by colleagues, kicked back in a chair, twirling a pen in her hands. It was supposed to be a routine meeting with a marketing agency, which gave Reebok ideas for upcoming campaigns and collabs. But this time, photos of McLaughlin’s Instagram creations popped up on the projector screen. McLaughlin blinked. What?

Her colleagues started glancing across the room. “Is that you?” They mouthed as the agency rambled.

“You should collaborate with this girl,” the presenter ultimately suggested. “She’s coming up with some cool ideas.” McLaughlin kept her mouth shut during the meeting but later admitted to her bosses that she was the one behind the designs.

McLaughlin was still a junior employee, so she wasn’t surprised when Reebok didn’t jump at the opportunity to fund her weird, experimental art. But the company did send her to a three-month-long program at Adidas’s Brooklyn maker space, a wonderland of sewing machines and free materials called the Creator Farm. There, McLaughlin learned how to sew and make shoes from scratch. Meanwhile, her Instagram following continued to grow, and other brands emailed her project inquiries—a video series with Depop about her work, for example, and an opportunity to teach an upcycling workshop with footwear retail giant Foot Locker. That was all the nudge she needed. In 2019, McLaughlin quit her cushy corporate Reebok job—to the chagrin of her parents—and went full-time freelance.

“I still worry that it’s all going to stop,” she says. “Like this is a phase I’m just riding out, and one day the work is all going to disappear. But it’s funny, because I’ve been doing this full-time for six years, and it hasn’t stopped yet.”

It’s easy to see why McLaughlin and other upcycling designers have gained prominence. Designing and manufacturing apparel and footwear creates a ton of waste. That goes for fast fashion, of course. But it also goes for the outdoor industry.

Outdoor gear may appear rugged and practical, but the industry that produces and markets it is yoked to traditional fashion cycles. Yes, people want equipment that performs, but they also want to look on-trend. Most brands cash in on the appeal of new fashions by constantly changing designs and churning out new colors and cuts each season.

Creating those new styles generates lots of waste. For example: before a sneaker or hiking shoe goes to market, the factory will send a brand three or four prototypes—unwearable single shoes that get examined by the product designers, and are then thrown into the trash. Fabric swatches are much the same. It all piles up.

The constant change of seasonal colors and styles speeds up the turnover of product styles. According to a 2018 report from the EPA, American retail stores and consumers throw out about 13 million tons of clothing and footwear every year. The expense is ghastly. The waste is obscene.

Few of us are immune to this materialistic ethos. Have you ever tossed out a rain shell instead of re-waterproofing it? Gotten a new chalk bag solely because it had a cute pattern? Shelled out for a name-brand fleece with cool colorblocking, even though you’ve already got a serviceable midlayer? I know I have.

Through her work, McLaughlin forces consumers to question the outdoor industry’s process. And people are catching on. Upcycling is having a moment, and its ethos appears to have struck a chord with Gen Z consumers.

Gen Z faces more pressure from climate change—and climate anxiety—than any generation ever. Add to that post-inflation prices and a tough job market, and DIY starts to look mighty appealing, both as a cost-saving hobby and as a revolutionary movement.

Upcycling has also amplified new voices. For decades, brands have been the arbiters and gatekeepers of style. Now, a far more grassroots group of tastemakers is rewriting the rules and deciding for themselves what gets to be considered high fashion—and what gets dismissed as trash.

McLaughlin is one of the most prominent, but there are others. Anna Molinari, a 27-year-old designer based in New York City, makes skirts from plastic bags and decorative chain mail from soda can tabs. Rivers McCall, 23, crafts handbags and even cocktail dresses from old climbing rope. Both artists have dressed Wyn Wiley, the drag queen and environmental activist better known as Pattie Gonia. The partnerships have put cutting-edge upcycled designs in front of millions of viewers.

Upcycling—and its close siblings, thrifting and DIY—weren’t always cool. When my parents were young, new products were synonymous with wealth and importance. Old clothes meant you were a charity case. But over the last few decades, that’s begun to change. In fact, buying new will now earn you serious backlash in some corners of the internet.

“Social media has normalized second-hand shopping to the extent that there’s this sentiment of judgment if you buy a new designer bag,” says Molinari. She doesn’t necessarily disagree. “No one needs to buy new clothes. Buying new is so unnecessary, and watching the environment decline so quickly is terrifying,” she says. “I think everybody needs to take this seriously.”

Social media isn’t just a way to spread the zero-waste gospel. It has also allowed new generations to learn the timeless arts of sewing and repair.

I, for example, learned to sew from my mother, who hand-made my dresses in grade school. She learned from her mother, who learned from her grandma—the fearsome Ma Stalvey, who lived on a farm in southern Georgia, wringing the necks of chickens, cooking cornbread, and churning out shirts and nighties for her ten children out of the fabric flour sacks the grocery truck brought once a week. If it weren’t for those women, I’d never have picked up a needle. I don’t know that I ever would have wanted to; sewing always felt like a thing grown-ups did on school nights with the middle-aged mending circle at the local JoAnn’s. The act of sewing wasn’t aesthetic. It wasn’t edgy. And it certainly wasn’t cool.

But now, somehow, it is. According to Claudia E. Henninger, a fashion researcher and professor at the University of Manchester, the pandemic accelerated an interest in crafting. Gen Z ran with it.

“Social media has been massive,” Henninger says. “People can suddenly see other people knitting or crocheting or being creative. If that person can do it, then I can do it, as well.”

TikTok quickly emerged as a massive repository of sewing and crafting inspiration, and DIY tutorials and process videos exploded on Instagram. Entire crafting communities emerged. These days, if you upcycle, you’re not just a quirky teenager tinkering in your bedroom. You’re a part of something big.

That extends to the community of outdoor enthusiasts. Secondhand gear shops are popping up across the country. And outdoor brands are increasingly offering take-back programs, upcycling workshops, and repair services. Those that already have them are seeing major gains. Take Patagonia, which has offered repairs since the seventies. Its current pre-owned gear program, called Worn Wear, launched in 2012. The brand has seen more Gen-Z customers flocking to Worn Wear—not to mention massive viewership of its DIY repair videos on YouTube. Since 2018, The North Face, Arc’teryx, and REI (which has re-sold used gear for more than 60 years) have all launched or expanded existing used gear resale programs, as have more mainstream brands like Carhartt, Lululemon, and even Juicy Couture.

“I think it’s starting to become more culturally accepted,” Henninger says. Molinari sees long lines of customers outside of curated thrift stores in New York City on most weekends. “There’s the virality of videos about vintage clothing hauls,” she says. In the UK, Henninger often walks by protest sewing pop-ups: people set up in front of high street retailers and sew their own clothes, informing curious passersby that they don’t have to shop at big-name fashion houses to look good.

“That’s very powerful,” Henninger says. Nicole Bassett, a textile recycling expert and the co-founder of The Renewal Workshop, believes the upcycling movement could someday have a huge impact on the fashion industry. Over time, it could slow style turnover, undermine brands’ bottom lines, and finally force big companies to rewire their supply chains.

“We’re not on the precipice yet—we’re in the beginning of a very big change in our economics in general,” says Bassett.

As with any revolution, this movement faces hurdles. Young people don’t always have the purchasing power to pass over items with lower price tags—even if those products are less sustainable. But customer behavior indicates that Gen Z and Millennial shoppers are moving toward products that are environmentally conscious.

“Sustainability can be a very boring topic. And climate is honestly a boring, dry thing,” says Wyn Wiley, the person behind the Pattie Gonia persona. “But now there’s all this creativity and interest from Gen Z. They’re under more pressure than ever—but they’re also getting more creative than ever.”

As for McLaughlin? Sustainability wasn’t top of mind when she first started upcycling; she was initially attracted to samples and off-cuts only because they were free fodder for low-stakes experiments.

“When I started doing this work, I didn’t even know what upcycling was. Then, during COVID, brands started cleaning out their offices and realizing just how much stuff they had. That’s when they started reaching out to me for help,” McLaughlin says. At first that gave her pause. She was at a turning point in her career, and wanted to make sure the brands she worked with weren’t just doing sustainability as a shtick.

“But then I realized, I don’t work for the brands,” she says. “I work for the people who buy from those brands. Brands make all this stuff, and the responsibility falls on the consumer to figure out how to discard an item or recycle it.” Most of the time, there’s nowhere for that stuff to go. Most gear isn’t recyclable. Thrift stores are overwhelmed. We all have too much stuff in our houses. Waste is a serious issue.

Since 2021, McLaughlin has done consulting work with big brands about how they can limit waste and creatively reuse the scraps they already have. But she admits that her work sometimes feels like it’s just making a dent in the enormous problem created by fashion’s waste.

“I think there are days that are easy and exciting, and I feel really good about everything and like I can figure it all out,” she says. “But there are a lot of other days where it’s more like, ‘Oh my god, how did we get here? What are we doing? How am I helping to contribute to this?’”

McLaughlin escapes her worries by rock climbing—she finds the creative problem-solving on the wall helps complement her problem-solving in the studio. She also finds that the full-body movement helps her think. Her other tool is humor.

“There are so many hard conversations surrounding sustainability,” she says. “I want my work to be a moment of levity.” Often, that means leaning into the absurd.

“Making a bra out of lemon squeezers is funny. Putting pockets on a shoe is funny,” she says. “Most of the time, when I talk with brands about their process or what they could do to reduce waste, they’ve so overwhelmed. So when I’m designing, I want to make a statement, but I also want it to be fun.”

It’s a unique take on climate optimism. McLaughlin’s opinion is that, the more we lead with hope and humor, the more empowered we’ll be to take on the catastrophes facing our planet. What’s the point of saving humanity if we can’t have a little fun in the meantime?

“For me, upcycling is about being creative and using what you have. But it’s also about having fun,” she says. “I mean, that’s the root of upcycling: imagination and lightheartedness. That’s what keeps me going. And I think that’s what will get brands—and the fashion industry—excited about making change.”

5 Questions with Nicole McLaughlin

1. Your favorite material to work with is: Bread. Any time I work with food it’s always a really insane challenge of trying to figure out how to sew it, or construct it such that I can still take it apart and eat it after.

2. If the studio was burning down and you could grab one thing it would be: My grandfather’s squash trophy. He played until he was 80 years old and was a huge inspiration to me. When he passed away, all the kids in the family each took a trophy to remember him by.

3. The sports you played as a kid were: Tennis and basketball. And skateboarding.

4. You like to listen to: Podcasts and audiobooks while I’m working. I just flew through the whole Twilight series—I’d never read them, and my sister told me I needed to. If I’m listening to music, usually it’s lo-fi beats and shoegaze.

5. Right now you’re reading: Start With Why by Simon Sinek. It’s been a good reminder to define my goals and purpose. Otherwise, it can be easy to lose sight of those things.