I started making cashmere because I got tired of being disappointed by cashmere.

For years, I kept ordering pieces from established names with real heritage. They were positioned as luxury, the kind of brand you’d expect to deliver. But over time I noticed they didn’t hold up to my expectations, or justify their price point. The knit that was branded as an American or Italian house would arrive and then I’d discover it was made in China. Then it would pill after three wears. I’d find myself genuinely confused about what I was paying for. Not the fiber quality, clearly. Not the construction. Maybe the logo?

Look, I run a business. I know what margins look like, and I’m not naive about what growth requires. But there’s a tipping point where the balance shifts too far, where you’re optimizing for profit and speed at the expense of the thing that should matter most: making something worth keeping. We’ve been conditioned to expect everything within hours (Amazon has seen to that, and I’m not innocent here, I order plenty off Amazon myself). But that convenience model doesn’t leave room for the kind of craftsmanship that actually justifies a price tag. You can’t have both instant gratification and garments built to last decades.

The other reason I started producing cashmere is simple. I live in knits. Partly because I’m in Minnesota and the weather demands it. Partly because I think everyone looks great in a well-made sweater (they do). But mostly because knits are my uniform, whether I’m pairing them with denim or dressing them up. When you wear something constantly, you notice when it fails. And I kept running into this impossible gap. I was buying expensive pieces that didn’t perform, seeing fast fashion that fell apart immediately, and there was nothing in between that actually delivered on both quality and longevity.

What is Cashmere?

Cashmere comes from the undercoat cashmere goats develop to survive subzero winters. During the annual shedding season, herders comb out this undercoat by hand, carefully separating fine fibers from coarser outer guard hairs. A single goat produces approximately 110 grams per year. One sweater requires roughly 200 grams, the annual yield from two animals.

The softest cashmere comes from regions with the most severe climate conditions, where extreme temperatures force goats to grow exceptionally fine, dense undercoats. Fiber fineness is measured in microns (one millionth of a meter), and that measurement directly determines softness. Basically, the finer the fiber, the softer it feels.

As a farmer, this concept feels familiar. Certain root vegetables are harvested after the first freeze because cold stress converts their starches to sugars. Hardship improves what they ultimately become. It’s the same principle I work to teach my kids: the things worth having rarely come easily, and struggle often produces something better than comfort ever could. In cashmere, that hardship translates directly to quality. The goats endure brutal winters, and what they produce in response is extraordinary.

But the industry has created consequences that extend far beyond individual garments. Global demand for inexpensive cashmere has driven massive herd expansion. Unlike sheep, which graze grass tops while leaving root systems intact, goats consume plants entirely, roots included. The grasslands cannot regenerate. The system isn’t sustainable. Much of the rangeland has deteriorated.

The environmental impact circles back to fiber quality. Goats grazing degraded land produce inferior undercoats. This means shorter, thicker fibers that feel coarser, pill rapidly, and lack durability. It creates a cycle: lower quality fiber fetches lower market prices, forcing herders to expand herd sizes to maintain income, which further degrades the land and produces even lower quality fiber.

What qualifies as good cashmere?

Cashmere quality comes down to three things: fineness (how thin each individual fiber is), length (the industry calls this “staple length”), and purity (how much fine cashmere versus coarse guard hair you’re actually getting). Most people know about fineness. How soft a sweater feels is typically the first and the most common piece of feedback I hear from my customers. But fiber length matters just as much for whether a piece actually lasts. Longer fibers are substantially stronger, easier to spin into stable yarn, and far more resistant to pilling. (It’s also why certain cashmere pieces remain pristine after decades while others start pilling after three wears.)

How cashmere fibers are harvested also influences its quality. Traditional combing preserves the full fiber length and naturally separates the fine undercoat from coarse guard hairs. Shearing is faster and cheaper (which explains why it’s everywhere in commercial production), but it cuts the fibers short and incorporates significantly more guard hair.

The cashmere I use is Italian. I work with a partner I’ll call my sweater savant (he prefers to remain behind the scenes). He has a talent for knits I genuinely haven’t encountered anywhere else in the industry. He’s remarkably passionate about the perfect sweater and works with some very established names. How I convinced him to take me on, I’m still not entirely sure, but he’s a huge part of why our cashmere performs the way it does.

How we design our knits

We do at least two rounds of sampling on every piece, sometimes three. I’ll look at a sample and think it’s great. Then he’ll have 25 edits. So we’ll refine and then make another sample. His pursuit of perfection is what drives the process, and honestly, it’s what elevates the final product beyond what I could achieve on my own. His level of attention matters because I want people owning these sweaters for years, ideally decades. I’m aware that many brands want customers buying constantly, replacing pieces every season. I want my customers coming back for more pieces, too. But I don’t want it to be because they need to replace a sweater that’s deteriorated. I want it to be because they found something irreplaceable and want to grow their wardrobe long-term. I want my customers to own their knits for a very, very long time.

What I won’t compromise on, ever

The bigger decision was about synthetics, which I decided against categorically. You will never see synthetic fiber in any of my knits. Synthetics aren’t always problematic. In tweeds they’re sometimes necessary for structure or texture or to get shine, and since you’re not washing tweed frequently, it’s less of an issue. But in knits? Synthetics are terrible. You can’t breathe in them. They don’t dry clean or wash well. It’s why I always lean toward natural fibers: cotton, silk, virgin wool, cashmere, vicuña. If I’m making cashmere, it needs to be pure cashmere.

How pricing really works in retail

When I started the brand, a mentor explained that if you want to make it work financially, your retail price needs to be roughly six times your cost of goods. That multiplier accounts for everyone who needs to get paid: showrooms (most brands maintain presence in New York or LA) and wholesale retailers like Nordstrom or Neiman Marcus who typically require at minimum keystone markup. (That’s 100% markup, though most want 2.5x.) So if you sell them something for $100, they turn around and sell it for $250.

When you’re direct-to-consumer, you eliminate that entire middle layer. You lose the leverage and brand awareness that a Nordstrom or Bergdorf can offer, but you’re getting significantly better value ordering directly from the brand. Also, fun fact, any brand that does offer wholesale has to match pricing across channels. For example, if Neiman is selling your sweater for $250, you also have to sell it for $250 on your own site, which means the brand captures a much higher margin on direct sales.

My margin on these pieces is considerably slimmer than industry standard. When you see a luxury brand selling something for $3,000, it likely costs $500 to make, maybe less. That markup structure is also what allows brands to discount so aggressively. They’re still making substantial profit because of how much they marked up to begin with. I’d rather sell fewer pieces at honest pricing than build in that kind of margin cushion.

What I’ve learned in the last two years is that the cashmere industry has fractured into two entirely separate markets. One prioritizes speed and accessibility. The other values quality and longevity. And there’s almost no overlap. The difference between a $50 sweater and a $3,000 one isn’t just branding or margin inflation (though I’d be lying if I said those never factor in). What you’re getting is fundamentally different: different fiber, different sourcing, different manufacturing standards, different lifespan. Which market you’re buying from determines whether you’re getting something that lasts two seasons or two decades. This article by Amanda Mull at The Atlantic is a really good in-depth exploration into the demise of quality knitwear.

My ethos behind how I approach cashmere is the same reason I started Eleanor Leftwich. I’m working to build cashmere the way it was made before the industry prioritized volume over quality, when pieces were constructed to last decades rather than seasons. I want my customers to own pieces that feel just as good today as they will years from now. The goal isn’t producing more. It’s producing better. Period.

P.S. Donegal sweaters went out this week and clients loved them so much they’re already ordering more. Most of them are sold out, but there are a few in stock in Claret and Atlantic. (I’m not sure how long they’ll be there.) Fair Isle sweaters also sold out (thank you!) but if you need to get your hands on a classic, there are still crew, cardigan, and other super soft cashmere options in stock.