It’s no secret that fashion loves an “inspired by” moment. We see it in runways dripping with references to cultures, in mood boards pinned with traditional patterns and in collections that borrow aesthetics from communities with no credit given. It’s a neat, convenient little formula: take something beautiful, strip it of its cultural context, and present it as fresh, new, and profitable. But in a world where Gen Z thinks they have all the answers, Millennials are busy questioning them, and Boomers are stuck in theirs, why haven’t we answered: What does ‘inspired by’ actually mean?

“Inspired by” has long been the convenient mask behind which cultural extraction hides. The word “inspiration” has been stretched thin, allowing fashion to dabble in Indigenous, African, South Pacific, and Asian aesthetics without actually engaging with the people behind them. It’s easy to romanticise culture from a distance while avoiding the responsibility of understanding its roots and the people it represents. 

The more disconnected these choices are from the culture itself, the easier it becomes to treat them as design elements rather than reflections of lived experience. But the truth is, the deeper a brand’s identity is built on borrowed elements, the more it perpetuates a cycle of cultural commodification, where the stories and significance behind these elements are erased.

But how did we get here? Where in the creative process did inspiration become extraction? The shift often happens in the research phase, where brands grab images, textiles, and artefacts without direct engagement with the people behind them, or, our personal favourite, “inspiration” from that exotic country they visited last summer. A brand name in a foreign language, a tagline that sounds poetic but holds no personal meaning, or a mood board filled with traditional motifs, these small choices snowball into entire brand identities built on aesthetics with no cultural accountability. The commercial fashion cycle rewards speed and trend-chasing over depth and integrity, making it easier to borrow than to collaborate. As a result, collections mimic cultural aesthetics without carrying their deeper meaning, campaigns treat heritage as a mere backdrop, and the communities being referenced remain unseen and uncompensated.

This is how the shift from inspiration to extraction happens, often without conscious intent. The further removed these choices are from their original meaning, the easier it becomes to treat culture as an aesthetic toolkit rather than something belonging to real people. The more brands build their identity on borrowed elements, the more they reinforce a system where culture is something to be consumed rather than respected. Reversing this cycle means questioning not just how culture is used in branding, but why. 

If brands truly respected a culture, “inspired by” should never be the end of the story. The alternative? Meaningful collaboration. Working directly with Indigenous artists, paying them fairly, ensuring they have creative control, and making sure their communities benefit from the success of the work. This is the difference between appreciation and exploitation.

Fashion doesn’t have to exist in a vacuum where Western designers are the sole storytellers. There is space for multiple voices, for authentic representation, and for fashion that honours, rather than erases, its sources. If the industry is truly committed to change, it’s time to go beyond simply drawing inspiration and start investing in the communities that have long been treated as muses rather than creators.