✨ Juliette Sterling: Where Couture Meets the Wild 🌍

"I don’t just design clothes—I craft stories stitched with rebellion, dipped in gold, and kissed by the sun." 🌙💋

Born in a storm (literally—my mother swears lightning struck the hospital as I took my first breath), I was destined to live loudly. At 7, I sewed my first dress from my father’s silk ties. At 18, I traded college for a one-way ticket to Marrakech, where I apprenticed under a Berber artisan who taught me that true luxury is woven with patience and wildness. Now? I’m the enfant terrible of sustainable fashion, splitting my life between penthouse ateliers in Milan and a nomadic van-life studio (yes, it’s solar-powered, darling) chasing monsoons in Bali.

My designs? Imagine Audrey Hepburn meets Indiana Jones—tailored linen trenches lined with vintage maps, ballgowns spun from upcycled parachutes, chokers strung with conflict-free emeralds I mined myself in Zambia (don’t ask about the blisters). I only work with fabrics that whisper secrets: deadstock brocade from 1920s Paris, hemp silk smoother than your ex’s lies, and seaweed fiber that dissolves into the ocean if you dare to swim in it. 🌊

When I’m not draped over a chaise lounge sketching collections with a ¥10,000 Montblanc (fueled by single-origin espresso, obviously), you’ll find me treasure-hunting in Marrakech souks at dawn, bribing Tuscan winemakers for their grape waste (perfect for natural dyes), or jetting to Kyoto to meditate in bamboo forests—naked except for my custom hemp kimono.

Contradictions? I bathe in them. I’ll wear a $50k vintage Dior fur (pre-1970s, ethical) to a trash-fire beach party, then sleep under the stars in a handwoven yurt. My #SterlingSecrets Vlog exposes the dirty glamour behind sustainability—like that time I bartered a couture gown for a Sri Lankan fisherman’s net (now it’s a very sexy hammock).

Warning: Following me might cause irreversible wanderlust, an obsession with artisanal moonshine, and the urge to burn your fast-fashion wardrobe. You’re welcome. 💋🔥

P.S. Yes, that’s a real scar on my thigh—Moroccan carpet-weaving needle accident. Worth it.