There are few things in life that bring me as much chaotic joy as Project Runway. I could be deep in an existential spiral, questioning the state of the world, my life, or why I always forget to defrost the chicken—and suddenly, like a rhinestoned angel from Bravo past, Tim Gunn whispers, “Make it work,” and everything is okay again.
Let’s be clear: Project Runway is completely unhinged. It’s a show where contestants are asked to create a red carpet look out of corn husks and broken dreams in under 14 hours. It’s fashion meets The Hunger Games—if the tributes were armed only with glue guns, trauma, and passive-aggressive snark. And yet, I love it with every fiber of my soul. From the wildly impractical challenges (“Make a couture ballgown out of the contents of a hardware store!”) to the contestants’ inevitable nervous breakdowns while sewing a hem, it is perfection. Unhinged, sequin-covered, meltdown-prone perfection.
The genius of Project Runway lies in its formula. Each episode starts with a vague directive like “Create something inspired by your darkest fear,” or “Design an outfit for a dog that transforms into a cocktail dress for its owner.” Then you watch as 12 exhausted creatives have a full-blown identity crisis in the middle of Mood Fabrics. The camera pans dramatically to a bolt of fabric. Someone cries. Someone else hot glues something to their model’s face. Tim Gunn shows up looking disappointed but supportive, like your gay dad at a middle school talent show.
And then there’s the judging. The panel has always been an exquisite fever dream of fashion royalty and bewildered guest celebrities. You’ll have Michael Kors making delightfully savage analogies like “It looks like she’s wearing a diaper made out of upholstery,” while Heidi Klum stares into your soul with a smile that says, “Your pleats offend me.” In later seasons, you’ll find Brandon Maxwell mumbling, “It’s cool,” and Nina Garcia sharpening her eyebrows into daggers of elegance and truth. Somewhere, Zac Posen is spinning in a circle screaming “drama!”
But for all its absurdity, Project Runway matters. It’s one of the few platforms where unknown designers, often from humble or marginalized backgrounds, get a shot at being taken seriously in an industry that is often gatekept by nepotism and Parisian snobbery. It’s a place where you can be queer, loud, weird, and still be celebrated—assuming your garment doesn’t look like a melted shower curtain.
Let us not forget the icons it birthed. Christian Siriano, the Season 4 winner, has become one of the most influential designers in the world. He dresses A-listers, runs his own fashion empire, and somehow still finds time to judge the newer seasons. His “fierce” catchphrase may have been aggressively 2007, but his legacy is timeless. There’s also Leanne Marshall, with her architectural organza waves, and Seth Aaron Henderson, who gave us a fashion-forward punk energy with the work ethic of a caffeinated drag queen. These aren’t just reality TV contestants—they’re proof that talent can survive even the deadliest gauntlet of all: fashion on a timer.
The show itself has evolved more than Heidi’s accent. It started on Bravo, migrated to Lifetime (where fashion dreams go to die), then returned to Bravo like a prodigal son in a well-tailored blazer. We said goodbye to Tim and Heidi (who fled to Amazon for Making the Cut), and welcomed Karlie Kloss and Christian Siriano as the new dynamic duo. Admittedly, Karlie’s “I’m just like you” energy occasionally clashed with contestants who definitely didn’t summer in the Hamptons with Kushner in-laws, but Siriano brought the snark and mentorship full throttle.
Even the models on Project Runway evolved. We saw the shift to inclusive casting—models of all sizes, backgrounds, and identities. It wasn’t just performative; it was genuinely empowering. Fashion is for everyone, not just sample-sized mannequins. Seeing a contestant lovingly create a wedding dress for a plus-size Black model, knowing that garment would have never existed in a Parisian atelier, meant something.
And let’s be honest: part of why I love it is the sheer audacity. The time limits are arbitrary. The resources are minimal. The expectations are delusional. And yet, these designers show up with pins in their mouths, caffeine in their bloodstreams, and the resilience of people who have absolutely been through it. You will never convince me that crafting a high-fashion look out of Goodwill couch cushions in 45 minutes while your model is allergic to polyester isn’t a metaphor for life itself.
So yes, Project Runway is absurd. But it’s also brave, bizarre, and brilliant. It’s high-stakes creativity on display, where you are judged not just for your talent but for how well you can thread a needle while sobbing. It has influenced fashion far beyond the show itself, elevating streetwear, sustainability, and even cosplay into legitimate fashion movements. It made us all armchair fashion critics who now look at the Met Gala and say, “Michael Kors would’ve hated that hem.”
In the end, I don’t watch Project Runway because I want to be a designer. I watch it because I believe in passion, in creativity under pressure, and in the transformative power of a really well-draped sleeve. It reminds me that even in the mess, the meltdown, the time crunch, and the critique—beauty can still walk that runway.
And if that’s not fierce, I don’t know what is.