Material Literacy in the Age of Misinformation
Fiber Talk Isn’t Enough
Not long ago, most shoppers barely glanced at fiber content tags. Fabric was fabric. Cotton was cotton. Polyester was… well, probably in everything. But lately, something’s shifted. Shoppers are starting to care what their clothes are made of and they’re getting vocal about it.
On TikTok, Instagram, and in product reviews, you’ll now hear people talk about how polyester “traps odor” or how they’re “switching to 100% cotton for their health.” Natural fibers are being celebrated not just for comfort, but for virtue. Cotton is breathable. Linen is clean. Silk is luxurious. Wool is noble. Polyester? Bad. Nylon? Worse. Bamboo? Mysterious, but often praised.
At first glance, this seems like a win. Consumers are asking more questions. They’re paying attention to materials. But beneath that curiosity lies a new problem: misinformation is spreading faster than nuance.
What we’re seeing isn’t true material literacy. It’s a simplified, aesthetic version of it. One that’s driven by health fears, surface-level narratives, and marketing speak disguised as personal insight. And while it reflects a growing desire to shop with intention, it’s also reinforcing myths that stall progress.
In this post, we’ll explore how this new wave of fiber awareness took hold, why it’s not the same as real material literacy, and what brands and educators can do to meet this moment with clarity, not just vibes.
Natural = Good? The Oversimplification of Fiber Perception
There’s a growing assumption that “natural” fibers are inherently better—better for your skin, better for the planet, better for your wardrobe. Cotton, linen, wool, and silk are talked about like health foods, while synthetics like polyester and nylon are treated like toxic additives. In this narrative, fiber content becomes a moral code: clean vs. dirty, safe vs. suspicious, pure vs. plastic.
But this binary is deeply flawed.
Cotton may be a plant-based fiber, but conventional cotton farming is one of the most resource-intensive processes in the textile world. It requires vast amounts of water, pesticide use, and land. Meanwhile, polyester, while derived from petroleum, is often chosen for its durability, wrinkle resistance, and suitability in circular systems like closed-loop recycling or resale platforms where longevity matters.
Wool is biodegradable, yes, but it’s also associated with methane emissions, animal welfare concerns, and heavy washing requirements. Bamboo? Despite its eco-image, bamboo-based fabrics are almost always rayon, produced through chemical processing that raises its own sustainability questions. And silk, often held up as the ultimate luxury fiber, has both high environmental impact and ethical concerns tied to animal use.
This doesn’t mean natural fibers are “bad.” It means they’re not automatically good.
When consumers rely on fiber content alone to gauge sustainability, they miss the broader picture: where was the fiber sourced? How was it processed? What’s the expected lifecycle of the product? Will it biodegrade, or will it last long enough to avoid early disposal?
The idea that cotton = good and polyester = bad is comforting, but it's reductive. It flattens the conversation into a checklist when what we really need is a framework, one that accounts for durability, performance, environmental impact, labor practices, and end-of-life pathways.
In other words: fiber content is just the start. It’s not the full story.
TikTok Trends, Health Claims, and Aesthetic Sustainability
If Instagram made sustainability look beautiful, TikTok made it sound believable. In short, punchy videos, often filmed in softly lit bedrooms or narrated over thrift hauls, fiber content has become a kind of lifestyle shorthand. “Always check the tag,” a creator says, holding up a dress. “It’s 100% cotton. That’s how you know it’s good.”
There’s no mention of how that cotton was farmed. No consideration of working conditions, processing chemicals, or water use. Just a tag, a tone, and a takeaway: natural is better, and if you don’t know that, you’re doing it wrong.
This is where health and sustainability messaging begin to blur. Polyester is demonized not just for its environmental impact, but for being “plastic on your skin.” Synthetic = toxic. Natural = breathable. Clothing choices are framed like skincare: what you put on your body is just as important as what you put in it. And that logic feels good. It’s intuitive. But it’s also a perfect recipe for oversimplification.
What starts as fiber awareness quickly becomes aesthetic sustainability. It’s not about traceability or lifecycle thinking; it’s about what looks sustainable, what sounds sustainable, and what fits the dominant visual language of wellness culture. Linen sheets, organic loungewear, undyed cotton sets. The color beige is practically a sustainability claim in itself.
In this version of the narrative, synthetics are excluded from the picture not because they perform poorly, but because they feel wrong and that feeling is amplified by the algorithm. The more a creator reinforces the idea that polyester is bad for your skin, the more engagement they get. The more they show off “natural” fibers as inherently good, the more they’re rewarded for reinforcing that framework.
The danger isn’t that people are interested in fiber. It’s that they’re being trained to associate sustainability with a visual and emotional ideal that has very little to do with how sustainable a garment actually is.
Material literacy is turning into material morality and once that happens, it becomes a lot harder to introduce nuance back into the conversation.
Why the Full Story Matters — Trade-Offs, Transparency, and Lifecycle Thinking
The truth is, there’s no perfect fiber. Every material comes with trade-offs: ecological, economic, social, or all of the above. And yet, in most consumer conversations about sustainability, those trade-offs are invisible. What’s visible is the fiber content tag. What’s invisible is everything that came before and everything that comes after.
This is why material literacy has to go beyond just “knowing your fabrics.” It’s not about memorizing which fibers are biodegradable or which ones wick moisture. It’s about understanding the context in which that fabric was chosen, produced, and brought to market.
For example, recycled polyester can be a smart choice in a product designed for longevity or resale, especially if it replaces virgin synthetics and performs better over time. But recycled polyester still sheds microplastics in the wash and often comes from bottle waste that wasn’t originally intended for textiles. Cotton may biodegrade, but if it’s conventionally grown, its water use and pesticide footprint may outweigh that benefit. Wool can last decades, but not everyone has the ability to care for it properly, and its warmth may be overkill in many climates.
Lifecycle thinking matters because sustainability doesn’t begin and end with the raw material. A “good” fiber can become a “bad” product when it’s overdesigned, poorly dyed, blended for aesthetics, or sewn in a way that limits recyclability. Conversely, a synthetic blend might support circular design or increase garment life in high-wear categories like outerwear or uniforms.
When we reduce fabric choices to a checklist of good vs. bad, we leave no room for performance needs, cultural context, consumer behavior, or innovation. That rigidity stifles design and leads to performative development, choosing materials based on public perception rather than technical or environmental suitability.
The solution isn’t to get every consumer to think like a textile engineer. But it is to help them understand that there’s a difference between what something’s made of and what that material means within a larger system. That’s what real material literacy looks like: being able to ask better questions, not just check for the right buzzword on the label.
What Brands Should Do — Teach, Don’t Perform
The current wave of material awareness is an opportunity, if brands are willing to rise to it with clarity instead of performance. Consumers are more engaged than ever with what their clothing is made from, but most aren’t textile experts. That gap creates space for either education or exploitation. Too often, brands choose the latter: vague green tags, recycled polyester headliners with no context, or campaigns that lean into the aesthetic of sustainability without actually investing in it.
But there’s another way. And it starts with treating material literacy not as a trend to capitalize on, but as a skill to nurture.
Stop relying on shortcuts. Saying “100% cotton” or “natural materials” is no longer enough. Consumers want to know why you chose that material, how it was processed, and what compromises were involved. Was it selected for recyclability? For lower dye impact? For end-of-life composting? Those details matter and sharing them builds credibility.
Explain trade-offs without shame. Not every product can be made from organic hemp or deadstock silk…and that’s okay! If you chose a synthetic blend for fit retention or durability, say so. If the price point demanded a more accessible fiber, explain how you made it work responsibly. Today’s shopper is skeptical of perfection but surprisingly receptive to honesty.
Build tools for understanding, not just marketing. A sustainability landing page with four vague bullet points isn’t enough. Offer fiber guides. Share behind-the-scenes decisions. Show lifecycle impact data when possible. Partner with educators, not just influencers. The brands that do this will earn long-term trust, not just short-term conversion.
Embrace nuance as a value. If there’s one takeaway from the material misinformation era, it’s that people crave clarity. But clarity doesn’t mean oversimplification. It means telling the truth, even when it’s complicated. Especially when it’s complicated.
The future of brand communication in fashion won’t be shaped by who shouts “sustainable” the loudest. It’ll be shaped by who teaches best.
From Fiber Awareness to Fabric Fluency
It’s encouraging that consumers are finally paying attention to materials. But attention isn’t the same as understanding. And in today’s landscape of fast content, fast fashion, and fast assumptions, even well-intentioned fiber awareness can quickly devolve into misinformation.
The goal isn’t to turn every shopper into a textile specialist. It’s to create a culture of curiosity, one where people don’t just ask what something is made of, but why it was made that way. That shift from fiber awareness to fabric fluency will require more from everyone: more transparency from brands, more critical thinking from consumers, and more storytelling from those of us who work behind the seams.
🧵 Join the Conversation
Have you noticed “fiber talk” shaping your own shopping habits?Are there materials you’ve avoided, or sought out, based on social media claims?
I’d love to hear what you’ve learned, questioned, or unlearned when it comes to fabrics. Share your take in the comments.
🔜 Coming Up: A Quiz!
Next week I’m throwing it back to the days of magazine quizzes! Are you curious to know which sustainable shopper architype you are? Because you’ll find out next week ;)