New York in a Fashion Minute
Getting here didn’t happen in a New York minute—but the moment I step backstage, time speeds up. I will be seeing todays collection before Anna Wintour. I was told this several times by Daryll. And before I know it, it’ll be over in twenty-five minutes of orchestrated chaos.
Daryll leads us up a narrow flight of stairs, through a dimly lit space, and finally pulls back a beige curtain. The room is tight—probably the smallest backstage area I’ve seen so far. Racks of garments line the walls, each piece still wrapped in plastic, untouched and pristine. My eyes dart in a million directions. The fabric choices, the color palettes, the textures—all meticulously considered. Every seam, every button, every hem exists for a reason. The design team scrambles around me, making last-minute adjustments, snipping stray threads, steaming delicate silks. The energy in the room is thick with anticipation, humming with an unspoken understanding that soon, this space will transform into a blur of movement.
Daryll, our backstage supervisor, is a force. He’s intense, almost intimidating, but I suppose that’s precisely what keeps everything running smoothly. Every person in this space has a job, which must be done with precision. I take a beat, letting it all sink in. I don’t believe in imposter syndrome. I’ve always thought that everyone is exactly where they’re supposed to be. I look around the room and can feel how much work, time, and effort it took for everyone to get here. Every late night, every sacrifice—it all led to this moment. And I feel incredibly grateful to be here. I was thankful I had found Ivana, who organized Random Experience, which was the agency that trained and taught you all things New York Fashion Week. And while balancing university and this level of work certainly wasn't easy, it was just two weeks of no sleep. I would pay that price all over again if asked. Oscar de la Renta, Carolina Herrara, Altuzarra, Michael Kors, just a few of the shows I got to work backstage. Endlessly grateful. Forever in my memory.
I glance at the dressing card in my hand: Valeria Buldini. Look A. A strikingly beautiful girl stands in front of me, her features delicate yet sharp, her presence quietly commanding. She seems young, maybe in her early twenties. There’s a softness to her that stands in contrast to the cool confidence of the other models. She quickly begins dressing, and I step in to fasten buttons and smooth fabric into place. She’s tall and has a heavy accent. Midway through, she leans in and whispers, “May I ask you a question?” I timidly nod.
“Do you know who the designer is?”
I freeze for a second but also smile. How does she not know? I had spent days memorizing names, studying past collections, and making sure I knew every detail about each designer I would possibly encounter. Yet, here she was—the main model—completely unaware. It’s a reminder of how different our experiences are. For her, this is another job, another show. For me, it’s a moment I’ll probably never forget.
She glances around, shifting slightly, and I notice a flicker of nervousness in her expression. Unlike most models, who usually know each other, she seems alone here. And tonight, she won’t just be walking the runway—she’ll be seated in the center of the stage for the entire show. Minutes later, she’ll be in Vogue.
Nearby, Daryll adjusts a model’s collar, and I hear him turn to one of the other girls and say, “I’ve been working this job for 26 years. I never get tired of it. I look forward to it every single season.” His words stay with me. I can see it in his eyes—the same love for this world that so many backstage share.
Thom Browne’s collection is unlike anything I’ve seen. The garments are architectural, structured yet whimsical—exaggerated shoulders, impeccably tailored jackets, impossibly intricate embroidery. A deep navy wool coat catches my eye, the stitching so fine it nearly disappears into the fabric. A model slips into a corseted dress that weighs ten times as much as she does, its sculpted hem defying gravity. This isn’t just clothing—it’s storytelling, meticulously crafted by human hands. Stories humans created. So thoughtfully.
The show moves faster than I imagined. The room shifts from quiet anticipation to a flurry of motion—models stepping in and out of outfits, makeup artists dabbing last-minute touches of highlighter, stylists adjusting hemlines with seconds to spare. The air is thick with hairspray, the scent of steamed fabric, the muffled bass of the music beyond the curtain. The controlled chaos is hypnotizing.
And then, as quickly as it began, it’s over. Twenty-five minutes, and it’s done. The once-pristine clothes are now wrinkled, worn, lived in. I step back, letting it all sink in. I can feel every single person in the room take a deep breath and let it out. Everyone is incredibly proud. This experience wasn’t just about fashion—it was about precision, artistry, passion. It was about the people who dedicate themselves to something fleeting yet unforgettable.
What is it all for? The long nights, the frantic rush, the obsession over every last detail? Maybe it’s about more than just the show itself. It’s about the collective passion, artistry, and love for something beyond fabric and stitches. It’s the energy in the room, the unspoken understanding that every person here has given a piece of themselves to make this moment happen. It’s about pushing past exhaustion, working toward something more significant than any one individual, and knowing that all the chaos and creativity lead to something extraordinary.
Maybe, at its core, it’s about proving to yourself that you belong. And my favorite takeaway? I think about just how much I love what I do.
