The story of Below the Surface – and what it gave me beyond clothing.
It started like most things do—quietly, and without permission. Just a handful of us, a name, and the kind of naïve belief you only have when you haven’t been told yet that it might not work. Below the Surface. That was the brand. And it meant something, even then—before the ideas were formed, before the designs were drafted, before BTS became shorthand for a global pop phenomenon. Our BTS came first, not that it matters now. But still.
Originally, we built the brand around the four elements of hip-hop: MCing, DJing, breaking, graffiti. But that was more scaffolding than foundation. The truth is, we started making the clothes we wanted to wear because no one else was doing it for us. Streetwear, at the time, was moving fast—flashy, loud, trend-driven. We wanted something different. Something rooted in the culture we grew up in, not just what was cool at the moment. We weren’t trying to predict what would sell. We were trying to wear something that felt like us.
What happened next felt like a dream moving in real time. MAGIC in Las Vegas—a sea of booths, brand names, and hustle. We showed up not as tourists, but as builders. It was intimidating, surreal, exhilarating. MAGIC wasn’t just a trade show—it was the trade show. Streetwear’s version of Fashion Week. This was where credibility was earned, not given. It wasn’t about hype. It was about presence. We didn’t have a sales team or professional handlers. We had ourselves, our product, and the conviction that it was good enough to stand alongside anyone else in the building.
Then came Karmaloop. And with it, Kazbah. For anyone who remembers, Karmaloop in the early 2010s was the online destination for independent fashion. And Kazbah? That was their curated space for emerging brands. The underground to the underground. The digital version of the alley you had to know someone to get into. And somehow, we got in. We were featured, promoted, sold alongside other brands we’d only ever seen in our browser bookmarks. Suddenly we were fielding orders from cities we’d never been to. Strangers were tagging us in photos. Our designs were traveling further than we ever could. And for a while, we believed this could be something lasting.
We dove in. Photoshoots, product drops, design meetings, fulfillment logistics. We lived and breathed Below the Surface. And as exhausting as it was—it was electric. It was ours. We got a taste of what it meant to take something from a half-thought idea into a tangible, wearable thing in the world. We got a glimpse of how creative and business could co-exist. And for me personally, it scratched an itch I didn’t even know I had. The need to build. To express. To lead.
But momentum, as I’ve learned, isn’t the same as sustainability.
The writing was on the wall. Streetwear was evolving. Oversaturated. Flattened by social media. The barrier to entry had collapsed, and the space we once occupied became overcrowded. At the same time, Karmaloop hit financial trouble. In 2015, they filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy. Kazbah folded. And just like that, seventy percent of our sales—and a year’s worth of hard-won profit—vanished. We had no backup plan. We were young, under-capitalized, overexposed, and emotionally spent. So we did what you do when something you love stops breathing. We let it go.
I think about it more than I say out loud. The brand. The movement. The name. Not with regret—but with something more complicated. Something closer to gratitude.
Because here’s the truth: even though it didn’t last, it taught me more than any job I’ve ever had. It taught me how to take a risk and stand behind it. It taught me that business is personal when you build something from nothing. It taught me how to lose with grace and walk away with something far more valuable than money: identity.
That experience shaped how I operate. It sharpened how I think. It gave me instincts I now use in boardrooms, strategy meetings, and side hustles. It introduced me to people who are still in my life over a decade later. It woke up parts of my brain I didn’t even know I’d need later on. Most of all, it taught me the difference between creating for approval and creating because it matters.
So this—this is a love letter to that time. To the nights we worked when no one was watching. To the orders we packed by hand. To the missteps that could’ve been avoided and the ones that couldn’t. To the late-night calls, the sold-out drops, the slow days, the “should we quit?” texts, and the belief—however short-lived—that we were building something that could go the distance.
We didn’t. But I did.
And if I could go back and tell that version of myself anything, it would be this:
You’re building a brand. You’re taking a chance. Keep doing that. The surface will crack, trends will fade, but what’s built beneath it – what’s real – will shape everything that comes next.
You didn’t lose. You just found something more important – something that still lives below the surface.
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Your Turn
Have you ever built something that didn’t survive—but shaped who you are now? What did it teach you? What did it leave behind?
Drop a comment. I want to hear your story. The real one. The one that still lingers, even if the project’s long gone.
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