Dear students,
This is not a rehearsal.
When I started teaching sustainable fashion in 2012, “sustainability” was still daggy, hempy and a bit embarrassing. Back then, my students were just beginning to grasp the scale of the problem, but once they saw it, they couldn’t un‑see it. They organised guerilla clothes‑swaps, dumpster‑dived for dinner, turned up at protests with home‑screen‑printed banners and leaking dye‑stained fingers. Their projects were messy and sometimes naïve, but they were trying with their whole selves to live as if the climate crisis was real.
Now, in 2026 in the middle of an unfolding climate emergency, most of you can recite the crisis perfectly: 1.5 degrees, tipping points, IPCC, planetary boundaries, you probably even know the SDGs off by heart. You know the facts. And then, in the next breath, many of you tell me your dream is a sustainability role at a major oil company or fast‑fashion brand, ideally with an international relocation package and a fancy job title.
David Graeber called them “bullshit jobs” roles so pointless that even the person doing them suspects society could function fine without them. In sustainability, we’ve invented a sub‑species: green bullshit jobs. The ones that massage emissions inventories, polish “net zero by 2050” brochures, or design the reusable cup campaign for an airline that keeps opening new routes.
Here’s the hard part: I am scared I am helping train you for precisely these green bullshit jobs. Are my classes a conveyor belt into the greenwashing departments of organisations still betting on a cooked planet?
In 2018 hundreds of thousands of students signed pledges not to work for companies expanding fossil fuel extraction, and to use your leverage to push institutions to divest. I was proud, inspired, a bit in awe. What happened to you?
I lecture about climate justice, sacrifice zones, frontline communities already losing homes, livelihoods and lives. Then I mark an essay about a stranger being refused boarding because of nerves, and something in me breaks a little.
Anxiety is real. Being stranded at an airport is not great. We are living through overlapping crises – climate, housing, cost of living, political instability – and it would be strange if that did not live in our collective nervous systems. I don’t want to belittle that. But I also don’t want our work together to shrink “social sustainability” down to whether some random chickadee in Ireland is treated politely by budget-airline staff. There are bigger -much more urgent- fish to fry.
So here is what I actually want for us.
I want us to treat the climate and biodiversity crises as the non‑negotiable background of everything we do. Not just a themed week. Not catchphrases you memorise and then forget, but the basic condition of our lifetime.
I want us to centre climate justice. To ask, in every case: who is this for, who is sacrificed, who decides? To trace how profits depend on extractive supply chains, unpaid care, land grabs – and to sit with the communities resisting that, not as stakeholders, but as political actors we stand alongside.
I want us to practice refusal. To treat saying NO as a skill – not just an individual moral drama. That might mean asking uncomfortable questions in job interviews, writing rejection emails to employers whose business model conflicts with your values, or joining others to push your future workplace, or this university, to change.
I don’t need you to be pure; there is no pure place to stand. I need you to be awake, situated, conflicted – and still willing to act. This is not a rehearsal. This is your one wild and precious life, in the only climate we will ever have.
With love, frustration and stubborn hope,
Tullia
