Long ago, I have always dreamt of New York Fashion Week.
Working alongside models, creative makeup artists, and seeing the talented designer. The clothes, the people, the crazy. Every little detail.
The rush gets addictive. Like coffee.
I was able to immediately dive into this world right after college. I would have never imagine myself in this field of work, or having the opportunity to walk the concrete grounds that I do now. Does it sound cool to utter: I work in fashion. Yeah, sure. I’ve work hard to gain the credibility that I have.
As New York Fashion Week wrapped up, I would not say I am a seasoned fashion week-er, but I know a thang or two.
I will always have a huge admiration for designers and their carefully thought-out collections, but fashion week makes no sense to me. There is so much money put into a 10-minute runway show or an-hour presentation. You cannot fathom the hard work, and time the teams put into these short-lived shows and presentations.
I am looking and talking about fashion on a larger scale.
I have only participated in four seasons, including this past season. But as each season approaches, I feel less incline to participate in any parties and go to shows altogether. I find myself more disconnected from this world as seasons fly by.
Fashion does not excite me as it used to and has caused me to be very anxious where it’s becoming unhealthy mentally. They’re just clothes, I say.
I am still in my twenties, a decade of blur, uncertainty, and instability, where I still have some time to make moves. I am considerably young, but in my early twenties, I used to think I was meant for fashion. Devils Wears Prada, anyone? But now, after being in the industry for a few years, I am reevaluating my dreams.
Do I want to be in an industry where I do not identify myself amongst these people? Or when a sample goes missing, I am stressed the fuck out, or crying at my desk because I am bombarded by meaningless bullshit?
I’m ready to move on from my childish dream.