Here I Am

I have loved fashion for as long as I can remember. When I was a kid rocking my jazzy outfits, I felt better about myself; I stood taller and walked more confidently. I saw myself as handsome, debonair, and invincible. Through the years, nothing has changed. I still find fashion to be transformative and often my outward appearance influences the way I feel on the inside.

In my twenties, when I pursued fashion design as a career, it did not surprise anyone. I wanted to become the person who could use fashion to make others feel good about themselves. Before settling on my career choice, I would frequently visit fabric stores in New York City’s Garment District. Without my realizing it, I was exploring my passion. Obsessed with textiles, I would delicately handle four-ply silk crepe in a way that was almost sensual and I swooned the first time I caressed double faced cashmere. The uneven, nubby texture of wool bouclé made my fingers tingle, and the liquid smoothness of silk charmeuse was sinfully delicious. Vogue, Elle, and Glamour magazines introduced to women’s fashion around the same time. Instead of theory laden textbooks, these glossy tomes provided me with relevant information that included current events, vibrant imagery, and an education in elevated style. I had stepped through a portal into an incredibly brilliant galaxy where models in beautiful clothes cavorted and posed in meticulously crafted otherworldly finery. I diligently combed through the pages, studying the smallest details, learning the names of the couturiers behind the confections. I lingered over every image, memorizing the credits and reading the accompanying articles. My informal education continued when I pushed through the revolving doors and stepped inside Bergdorf Goodman, the high end Fifth Avenue fashion emporium. The escalator whisked me a few floors up into fashion nirvana, where the garments that were suspended from the gilded racks mirrored the clothes that graced the pages of my favorite fashion magazines. My heart raced as I examined the impeccably tailored collections of Oscar de la Renta, Isaac Mizrahi, and Donna Karan. These darlings of Seventh Avenue motivated me and ignited a desire to create clothing just as beautiful and achieve a comparable level of success.

It was one thing to wish for my dreams to come true, but activating my passion required fearlessness and diligence. I had never worked in fashion, nor did I possess the skills to pivot from my dead end office job to womenswear design star seamlessly, so I needed to start my ascent from the lowest rung of the ladder to success. When my then-boyfriend and my cousin conspired to send me to a night course at the Fashion Institute of Technology, I began doing the practical work. As a kid, I always enjoyed art class, so fashion illustration came easily, but sewing was fraught with challenges and emotional turmoil. I had limited experience sewing with a sewing machine, so when I encountered my instructor who shrieked and admonished students who asked for guidance, I recoiled. Her screams were acid eating away at my confidence. On the first day, she announced to the class that many of us would not become successful designers which broke my spirit a few weeks into the semester, and I dropped out of school, packing away my sketch pad, color pencils, and home sewing machine. Dejected and discouraged, I reluctantly let go of my dream of becoming a Fashion Avenue darling. It was only after a career detour into cosmetology and a painful break-up with my boyfriend that I finally felt determined enough to pursue my passion once more. School had been too traumatizing, and I still didn’t have industry experience to land a design job, so I started my company and located an African tailor in my neighborhood who could translate my sketches into clothes. I found joy in the minor details of choosing buttons and shopping for zippers. Overseeing my ideas come to life was empowering. I found the process exhilarating and validating, as I had belatedly discovered an essential part of me that had been undernourished and was finally being fed. I put all the pieces together and staged a fashion show in my Brooklyn brownstone apartment and invited friends, family, and acquaintances to witness this new endeavor I birthed during a handful of months. I was fully immersed in my passion. After the show was over, the audience dispersed. I turned off the track lights, and then I wondered what was next. I had no marketing plan or course of action to sell my beautiful wares or plan to recoup the thousands of dollars I had spent to launch my new business. All I had was some pretty women’s clothes and a mound of debt.

Over the next fifteen years, my creative-based business would hurtle forward, but never materialize into an entity that was sustainable or moneymaking. The cycle to keep it afloat was exhausting and vicious. I borrowed money, paid a small fortune to have my designs turned into clothes by skilled sample makers, and staged magnificent, inventive shows, sometimes on the sidewalks of New York City where they were visible to members of the media or potentially garner press in local and national publications. I even appeared on television a few times. But I would always struggle unsuccessfully to translate that into sales. When Hurricane Sandy hit my New York neighborhood, I felt it was the final crushing blow to my design dream. I was turning 45 at the end of October, and with the electricity preemptively shut off, I was quiet and alone in the dark with only my thoughts to consider. I realized it would be too irresponsible to continue living my life without having concrete prospects for any kind of financial success. By this time I was in a nearly 15-year long-term relationship and it was unfair to him and to us to put that cash flow strain on our future. I was angry with the universe. My purpose and passion felt very connected to God. Yet, here I was again, forced to abandon the thing that brought clarity to my life. Shortly after a pointed talk with God, I received an email from my sister offering to pay for me to attend a one-day handbag workshop as a birthday gift. The universe was moving me in a new direction as I surrendered to my passion and pivoted to accessories.

When I started designing bags, I was too deep in debt to rely on others to construct my designs. I would need to make them myself. With a little help from my favorite aunt who attended Fashion Industries High School and plenty of help from YouTube, I learned, through trial and error, to become a maker. Being a solopreneur is difficult. Resourcefulness is key. There is sourcing the materials, constructing the bags, selling to stores and consumers, and then there is marketing. Social media platforms like Facebook and Instagram are so important in connecting me to a large community of friends I have yet to meet who are rooting for my success and happiness while I am also encouraging them. I have learned that people respond positively to my authenticity and are especially interested in my journey. I think what resonates most is that I have shared how I have stumbled and fallen many times as I have pursued my passion, but I pick myself up and keep on going. Someone once commented that through the twenty-four years of my fashion odyssey, I have persevered. I believe that’s what being bold enough to pursue one’s passion really means—perseverance.