What If I Had Stayed in Fashion Design?

The flash of camera bulbs ignites the room as I step onto the runway, clothed in a sheath of silk and gems that sparkles under the relentless spotlight. My name is whispered in a dozen different accents, drifting up from the crowd of fashion elites who’ve gathered to witness the unveiling of my latest collection. “Genius!” I hear someone say. “A visionary!” The scent of roses sent backstage from my most devoted admirer, a celebrity whose identity is kept secret, perfumes the air as I stride past the press. I don’t pause to take questions. The knowing smirk on my face is enough.

…

Oh boy. Who would have thought that a cliché like that would show up in your face? The stereotype of the fashion industry, what you’ll see and hear on movies and TV shows. It is the dream high school me once believed could be hers.

…

But let me shed the illusion, peel back the stitching thread by thread, and show you the reality I might have faced if I had decided to stay in my Fashion major.

The first year was thrilling, no doubt. Long hours in front of a sewing machine, the hum of needles stitching dreams into existence, my desk littered with fabric swatches, pencils worn down to nubs from sketching couture gowns, streetwear, and everything in between. My professors’ critiques were harsh but vital, like the sting of salt on an open wound, painful, yes, but purifying. I was told I had potential, even a certain edge that set me apart. That edge kept me going.

Then, the second year came, and I began to notice a heaviness in my chest that wouldn't go away. It was as if the air in the classroom grew thicker, made up of unspoken rivalries and the simmering pressure of expectations. The projects became more demanding, sleepless nights more frequent. I barely had the chance to relax outside of class. I’d become a ghost in my own life, haunting the corner table by the mannequins with dark-circled eyes and the taste of stale coffee on my tongue.

I’d watch others, the ones who seemed effortlessly talented, who laughed with professors and shared whispered conversations that hinted at internships in Paris or New York. The fashion world had its cliques, small constellations of connected stars, and I was somewhere on the edge, an unnamed asteroid drifting past their light. My mental health, already delicate, began to crack under the relentless pressure. The industry wasn’t just competitive; it was exclusive, and in that exclusion, I felt like I was wilting.

Graduation would have come, a blur of garments unfinished or never won. The hunt for work would have started, resumes sent into voids, interviews that ended with forced smiles and “We’ll be in touch.” More likely than not, I would have ended up folding T-shirts and restocking shelves at a retail store that blasted the same pop song on loop, telling customers the difference between sizes that barely fit anyone in real life. Every day, my eyes would linger on the latest magazine covers, showcasing designers whose names I once thought I could join. And each time, it would sting.

Would there have been moments of joy? Perhaps. The satisfaction of seeing a personal project come to life, of seeing someone wear one of my designs and smile. But those moments, few and far between, wouldn’t have outweighed the exhaustion. The ‘relentless’ demand for fresh ideas, the sacrifice of my energy, my health, even my relationships, it would have all piled up until even the spark of joy was buried beneath it.

…

The truth is, staying in that major, staying on that path, would have left me stranded in a world I didn’t belong to, a world where the price of a dream was higher than I could ever afford to pay.

So now, I imagine another stage: one where I’m not celebrated by fashion’s elite but where my spirit is still intact. Where I can use my creativity for my own joy in writing and cartoons. Not bound by the harsh seams of an industry that would have cut me apart, but stitched into something far more sustainable. Something that makes me feel whole.