When most people think of fashion school, whether they admit it or not, their first assumption is that it must be easy—like summer camp, but with unhelpful college credits. That it’s a nontelevised four-year version ofProject Runway. They think we traipse around designing on a whim and casually exploring our creativity. But nothing could be further from the truth. Fashion design isn’t a profession where you learn on the job and just do it. This is creation—it’s forced creation. It requires skill and relentless work and dedication and it will push you to your mental and emotional limits.
Pushed to my limits is a spot-on summary of how I’m feeling at the moment. Because even though I’m trying my hardest, even though I refuse to give up, everything inside me is begging to do just that.
I’ve been sticking to mystay positive and productiveroutine for the past two weeks. Waking up while it’s still dark and getting some work in before I make the kids’ breakfasts. Getting them dressed and ready for their days. Once they’re off and Daniella and Cal leave for the day, I spend all my time sketching, organizing, strategizing, constructing and sewing. I’ve landed on five new designs—two gowns and three cocktail dresses. I found a local fabric store and with my babysitting money, I’ve come up with just enough for new fabric. It’s not the best quality, but it’s all I can manage.
I’ve gone into the city a few times, just as I have today. It’s worth the hour and a half train ride in. As much as I can make magic with my own sewing machine, it’s a relief to use some of the modern equipment at school. And that’s precisely where I am now, bent over one of their newer sewing machines in an empty student workroom.
I’m adjusting a particularly stubborn piece at the moment, trying to manipulate it into the shape I need to finish off a stitch when I manage to hear a voice over the roar of the machine.
“It this room occupied?” it asks.
“No worries,” I answer, lining my skirt up again at a better angle. “It’s just me and there’s still plenty of—” My words trail off as I look up and see none other than Mira standing a few feet inside the doorway.
“What?” I exclaim, immediately taking my foot off the pedal. “What is happening right now?” I spring up from my seat and bound across the room. Mira is laughing as I arrive in front of her, wrapping her up in a fierce hug.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” I say. “I’m in shock.” I step back and look at her as I continue to grin like a fool.
“Iwasgoing to call you first, but I figured this way would be better.” Mira’s voice and presence are a breath of fresh air that I’m still not convinced is even real.
“How did you know I was on campus?” I ask.
“I texted Marco and he told me where to find you.”
“Oh, my god,” I chuckle. “Does Marco text with everyone?”
“I can’t speak for everyone, but he and I have been chatting for a while. He’s incredible at networking, due in part to him being so wonderful. Who wouldn’t want to text with him?”
“Point well made,” I agree. “I’m sorry, I’m still just blown away that you’re standing here. It’s so great to see you.”
“It’s great to see you, too. How’s everything going?” She looks around me and slowly walks past me, glancing at the dress forms where my two finished pieces are displayed.
“It’s going,” I tell her as I follow her path. I try not to listen to the voice in my head that’s convinced she’ll see my work and be disappointed. “What brings you to New York?”
She steals a peek at my work in progress at the sewing machine before facing me completely. “I’m here to meet with some prospective clients and to visit my dad. I was supposed to come in a few months, but with the new line coming out, everything got pushed forward. So naturally, I couldn’t resist dropping in to see how your collection was coming along.”
“That was so nice of you to think of me.” I move toward the dress form that’s wearing the look I like the best, hoping to draw her attention in that direction. “I’ve changed everything since I’ve been home. I’m much happier with it now, but I’m still solidifying some aspects.”
“They’re pretty,” Mira replies. “But if you don’t mind me asking, what really happened before you left Rome? The last you told me, you were excited about the collection you were working on.”
I feel my confidence starting to glitch as I think back to my last day at the internship. I try to stop it in its tracks, but it keeps rolling through. The meanest thoughts are well trained in evading capture. “I just wasn’t in love with my original ideas,” I end up saying. “They didn’t feel like they were working.”
Mira’s eyes are unconvinced. “Really? I thought they were nice. They were definitely pieces I would have worn.”
“I would have worn them, too,” I tell her. “But Lorenzo didn’t like them at all. He sort of passionately hated them.”
She only looks at me then, and I know she sees what I’m trying to hold back. “Lorenzo?” she repeats. “You decided to rework your entire collection because of Lorenzo?”
I look down at the floor before forcing my eyes up. “I’m not going to lie. The more I say that sentence out loud, the worse it sounds.”
“Listen,” Mira says, “I’m not telling you that Lorenzo’s opinions are always wrong, because they aren’t, but Lorenzo also likes things just the way he likes them. He doesn’t do change. I’ve been with the company for five years and have been asking for more responsibility for the past three. As far as Lorenzo is concerned, if it isn’t broken, you leave it alone. You can’t base your art on one person’s preferences, let alone his.”
I nod my head. Her words ring true.
“I think the problem was that I was already doubting myself, so when Lorenzo had such strong negative feelings about the collection, it felt like he must have been right. It was the path of least resistance to trust his opinion instead of forming my own.”
“Why would you ever doubt yourself?” Mira asks. “It was your designs and your talent that got you to Rome in the first place.”
I sit down in the chair at the sewing machine and Mira follows, sitting in the chair of the machine beside me.
