–KL Dunn
Every season, the industry tells you it’s time for something new, but what if it’s not?
Samantha Cerwin had always loved fashion—it was part of her DNA growing up—but it was a college roommate, someone deeply invested in sustainability, who challenged her to see it differently. That’s when she started thrifting more intentionally, buying less, and thinking critically about the waste embedded in the industry she adored. And then she moved to New York.
The Spark: From Fashion Lover to Swap Innovator
Living in the city, she saw firsthand how resale had morphed from a budget-friendly, sustainable option into something polished and pricey, often stripped of its original accessibility. What had once been a community-driven alternative now felt gentrified and exclusive. Swapping clothes—real, grassroots swapping—started to seem like the antidote.
“I’m not an extrovert,” she says. “After COVID, everyone had this social anxiety. Clothing swaps let people be around each other again, without too much pressure.”
Still, when someone suggested she might find swaps posted on flyers around the city, Samantha laughed. “The odds of me finding a flyer in New York? Zero,” she says. That moment, she recalls, was the spark. She didn’t want to reinvent swapping. She wanted to solve for everything around it—the awkward logistics, the lack of visibility, the friction points that kept it from growing.
Detroit, in all its underdog brilliance, gave her room to try.
She began by doing her homework, diving into research and joining a pre-accelerator program to shape her observations into something more strategic. The first experiment came together at the Old Miami—a gritty Detroit dive bar known as much for its legendary music history as its unassuming back patio.
“I asked the bartender, would you let me do this? She asked her boss. They said yes.”
She threw it up on Eventbrite, unsure if anyone would come. But people did. Some had never even heard of a clothing swap. One woman, thinking it was a donation drive, dropped off a giant pair of speakers. But others understood the vibe—and a few even came back for more.
Be Reworn Takes Shape
It wasn’t flawless but it was real and more importantly, it was enough to prove the concept. This attracted her co-founder: a hackathon veteran intrigued by what she was building. A third partner joined and eventually moved on, but the foundation of the idea stuck.
Be Reworn started modestly, focused on two things: swaps and workshops. But then, the emails started rolling in. People were interested in attending, even if they didn’t have clothes to trade. So they expanded—adding meetups, hosting pop-ups, and forming small partnerships. A lightweight, event-based, community-driven model was beginning to crystallize.
The Hidden Challenge: Leftover Clothes
They weren’t bringing in revenue yet, but the user base kept growing. And with that came a less glamorous issue: what to do with all the stuff nobody wanted.
“At every swap, there’s always stuff no one takes,” Samantha says. “And the host gets stuck with it. It’s exhausting. Some people stopped hosting altogether.”
So they pivoted again, widening the lens to consider not just the joyful chaos of a swap—but the quiet burden of its aftermath. What happens to the orphaned items? They began reaching out to organizations like Goodwill, Salvation Army, and emerging textile recyclers. Quiet partnerships began to form. Back-end systems took shape. Could these leftovers be picked up? Repurposed? Could they actually close the loop?
“We’re in talks now with places that can pick up from venues after an event,” she says. “It’s one of the biggest reasons people stop doing swaps. Too much stuff. No way to deal with it.”
Now, Be Reworn is growing into something larger—equal parts platform and infrastructure, a connective tissue for people who want to engage with fashion more consciously but don’t know where to begin.
In some cities, users host their own events. In others, Be Reworn facilitates workshops in collaboration with local designers. These gatherings are hands-on: attendees bring in worn-out clothes and walk away with new skills, repaired garments, or even upcycled pieces they’ve made themselves. And because it all happens in person, the experience sticks.
“No one wants another YouTube video,” Samantha explains.
More Than Swaps: Workshops, Meetups, and Community
Today, Be Reworn lists events in more than a dozen cities—Chicago, Los Angeles, New York, and more—and they’re eyeing expansion to Austin. The model travels well because the spirit behind it is already present in every place they land: a hunger for connection, a love of making, and a desire to escape the churn of fast consumerism. It’s not about buying more. It’s about doing more with what we already have.
A recent show. Pictured here L-R look by Lia Gabrielle Atelier, Raya(R) of House of Raya with model, Clothing display with offset outfit: designed by Morgan Guerrieri
And still, Detroit remains home. Because Detroit is a city that has always understood bottom-up innovation. Here, reuse isn’t a trend—it’s survival. From factories to fashion, spaces to systems, this city has always known how to rebuild. Be Reworn fits right in.
The city is stepping in too. One local official is working with Be Reworn to map how nonprofits and grassroots groups can better connect residents to the reuse resources that already exist. Often, it’s less about creating new systems and more about helping people find their way into them.
This summer, Be Reworn launched a new campaign called Intentional Summer. It’s not about selling anything. It’s about slowing down.
“Every season, the industry tells you it’s time for something new,” Samantha says. “But what if it’s not?”
The campaign includes a clothing swap, a donation drive, and a fashion show spotlighting Detroit-based designers on August 16. The message is clear: less seasonal churn, more rooted connection.
The model isn’t perfect. But it’s not supposed to be. Be Reworn isn’t chasing a flashy exit or betting it all on venture capital. It’s trying to make clothing swaps sustainable in the real sense of the word—easy for hosts, welcoming for guests, and mindful of what gets left behind. It’s trying to make reuse intuitive, joyful, and tied to community.
“When we talked to nonprofits,” she says, “a lot of them said, we don’t have the time to organize this stuff. But the truth is, these swaps are already happening. They just need to help spread the word. The clothes are there. The people are there.”
Workshops have become essential. “People want to learn together,” she says. “They don’t want to be taught by a YouTube video.” Some bring clothes that need mending. Others learn to upcycle or design from scratch. “It really depends on the designer running the session,” she adds.
And Be Reworn is starting to think about specific needs: younger people looking for jobs without appropriate clothes for interviews. The potential for partnerships with programs like Dress for Success, or local equivalents, is already taking shape.
She’s still figuring it out. But that’s part of the point. “My dad always says habits are the hardest thing to change,” she says. “But that’s where it all starts.”
In a city that knows how to build something from nothing, that kind of persistence—that kind of resourcefulness—might be the most Detroit thing of all.
all event photos by @benzo_be
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