The Fashion Industry, My Story
Build me up to knock me down; exploring feelings of internal inferiority.
I grew up thinking that beauty was one thing, trying so hard to attain it; well, whatever that meant. Growing up and trying to create myself while working in an industry that profits off women’s insecurities; it was so fucking hard to love myself. It felt impossible, and in the moment, it sure fucking was. How was I supposed to appreciate myself when I had others nitpicking my appearance on a regular basis?
What young girls need most in their life as they grow up, is a source of affirmation and encouragement, not only in relation to their appearance but their character. Struggling with self-confidence and fighting insecurities was the new normal for me as soon as I turned 12 but it became a real issue at age 14, when I started modelling. Developing an awareness around my body and my appearance at this time.
It’s crazy to think that the innocence associated with being a young girl can be ripped away from you through the occurrence of one negative comment or experience — external or internal — both equally as painful.
As a young girl both my Mom and Dad uplifted me and affirmed my identity through compliments of both appearance and personality. Unfortunately not all children have this privilege; to be fostered and cradled in a pool of love. Sure, my parents are not perfect, but this is one thing they did continually, with me, my sister, and my brother — and for that I thank you — because it’s what healed me during times of mental and emotional aches and pains.
At what point do girls become women? When is it that the innocence of girlhood is stripped off a girl’s back, ripped from her bare hands? Who decides?… Me?…You? I don’t think we’ll ever know. All I know is that society is built in this way to continually suppress the empowerment that hides beneath the skin of every girl and woman. We all have the ability to feel empowered. Society simply works in opposition to healthy emotional development, not only in girls and women, but in boys and men as well. But that’s a whole other topic for discussion.
I’ve always thought women were such majestic creatures, and I still do, even as I slowly become one. The eloquence and elegance that I associated with womanhood as a young girl was inspiring; inspirational toward the woman I am and continually strive to be. This does not mean that I disregard the multiplicative nature of what being a woman really means. It’s a term that varies across the board, from person to person. I’m simply talking about my experiences with girlhood and becoming a woman in the modern world. I recognize that others face more barriers than I. I choose to make space for all woman-identifying individuals, trans women, racialized women, those who identify as fluid in gender, etc. This blog is a safe space, welcome to all.
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Let’s digress to the latter of my experiences in the modelling industry. I loved it for a long long time, blind to what I was contributing to and what was being inflicted on to my person; unconsciously. There’s a sense of comfort in not knowing, but yep, as you probably guessed, I grew up and became apparent to it all.
It wasn’t all bad, I miss it sometimes. I miss the expenditure of creative energy that modelling allowed me to release. I miss the interesting artists and creatives I built relationships with and the satisfaction I felt once I saw the raw images from a shoot. I miss the sense of freedom that came over me when I was behind the camera.
But —
I do not miss the constant self-monitoring of my appearance and body, restricting my body from food, ignoring hunger cues, overexercising, feeling tired all of the time, feeling depressed and anxious, having frequent panic attacks, experiencing chest pain, comparing myself constantly, scared to death to go to the agency and see if my measurements have gone up or down. I felt trapped. I felt imprisoned. As if I were held captive by my own person, by me; myself. I was the prisoner and the prison guard. The disease and the medicine. It was a cyclical form of psychological suffering that needed to be paused, assessed, and rectified — or dissolved entirely.
May of 2023 I went into my agency for the regular ole digi-update. This is when your agent takes some pictures of you in your rawest form (no makeup and a simple outfit). I was always so fucking nervous for these, in retrospect, I have no idea why. It’s fucking silly really. I was blindsided by my agent on one of these regular visits to the agency, thinking he was my friend and supporter. I felt as if he ripped the rug out from underneath my bare feet, my feet then standing on shards of glass. It hurt, it pierced me, my body, my heart. I never want to feel that feeling ever again. Fucking ever.
To be a slender and tall woman, and be told that I have to lose an inch or two off my waist and hips is not only fucking insulting but disheartening, not only to me, but to women as a whole, as an army, as a force in this world. To be ushered to a private room by a cisgender, heterosexual man, to tell you that you aren’t skinny enough, pretty enough, good enough — is so fucking minuscule in a world full of war and suffering — but yet, this shattered me for some time.
He gave me two options after this, start commercial modelling (where models don’t have to be stick-thin), or lose the inches and resume with my high fashion editorial work. After a few days to sit with this, I decided to dissolve my contract. I was done. Emotionally, physically, mentally, and spiritually exhausted. Modelling was causing me more distress than inner-contentment.
Today I’m getting my haircut, something I would have to consult my agency about. It feels fucking amazing. Scrolling on Pinterest, really thinking about what I want, not what anybody else wants. Freedom. It’s a funny thing. Once you have it, you feel fucking invisible and know that this is what it’s supposed to feel like. This is what it feels like to be aligned, to live authentically, to feel free.
Fucking free.
Thank you so much for reading. It means more than you know!
Isobel Mae
