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From the moment I first set foot in the fashion industry, I knew it was where I wanted to build my career. But from that very first day, everything felt harder than I had imagined. Whispers followed me, judgmental stares met me at every turn, and my boss—well, he saw only my size, not my skills.
They doubted I belonged there, but I was determined to prove them wrong. When the runway lights came on, I knew it was my moment to challenge their perceptions and show the world what I was capable of.
It was my first day at the job, and as I walked to the office, my nerves were through the roof. My heart pounded in my chest, and my hands felt sweaty as I clutched my bag tightly. I tried to shake off the nerves, but the thoughts kept racing through my mind. What if they don’t accept me? What if I mess up and ruin everything? I took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing thoughts.
I stepped into the building, the sleek, modern glass doors opening for me as I made my way inside. My stomach turned, and I fumbled for my ID, swiping it twice before the elevator finally dinged and the doors opened.
I repeated the words I had been telling myself all morning: You’ve got this, Natalie. I took a deep breath and stepped into the elevator, feeling the tension in my shoulders.
As the elevator ascended, I tried to steady myself. But the moment I stepped out, I was greeted by the receptionist—a picture of perfection, radiating confidence. Her hair and makeup were flawless, and she looked like she belonged on the cover of a magazine.
“Hi, I’m—” I began to introduce myself, but before I could finish, she gave me a quick glance and interrupted.
“Oh, you’re the new cleaning lady. Let me show you around,” she said, standing up quickly and grabbing a clipboard as if she were in a hurry.
I stood there, stunned. “No, actually—” I started, trying to explain.
“Follow me,” she said briskly, not waiting for me to finish my sentence. “You need to familiarize yourself with the cleaning supplies. The bathrooms are down the hall; make sure to check them regularly.”
I tried to correct her. “I’m not the cleaning lady—”
“You’ll also handle the trash,” she added, still not looking at me. “Take it out at the end of the day—or sooner, if needed. And keep the break room clean. People here are messy.”
My face turned bright red with embarrassment. “I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding—”
Before I could say another word, we turned a corner, and there he was—Aiden, the designer I was supposed to assist. He glanced at me with a frown.
“Christy, where’s my assistant?” he demanded, his voice sharp.
Christy smiled awkwardly, “This is our new cleaner.”
“Actually,” I said, my voice shaking but determined, “my name is Natalie, and I’m your new assistant.” I held out my hand, hoping to clear up the confusion.
Christy blinked, realizing her mistake. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
Aiden, however, looked me up and down, sizing me up with a cold, critical stare. “Did HR even see you before they hired you?” he asked, his voice dripping with disbelief.
I swallowed hard, understanding exactly what he meant.
“Yes,” I answered, forcing myself to keep my voice steady. “I’m a professional, and I’m confident I can contribute.”
He ignored my outstretched hand. “We’ll see,” he muttered, turning sharply away.
I stood there, frozen, until he turned back and snapped, “Are you just going to stand there?”
My heart skipped a beat, and I rushed to follow him, barely keeping up as he walked quickly ahead.
“Hmph,” he muttered under his breath. “With that weight, I doubt you can keep up. Let’s hope she doesn’t break anything.”
His words stung like a slap to the face. I bit my lip and tried not to let his words get to me, but they were like daggers, each one digging deeper into my confidence.
The next two weeks were brutal. What I had dreamed of as my big break quickly turned into a nightmare. Each day felt like a struggle to prove myself, but it seemed no one took me seriously. I overheard cruel comments from my colleagues, whispers that they thought I couldn’t hear.
“Why doesn’t she just lose weight?” one said.
“How does someone like her work in fashion?” another sneered.
“She must not own a mirror,” someone else added.
Each comment stung, cutting me to my core. My confidence was already fragile, and hearing these cruel remarks only made it worse. I tried to push through, to show them that I had ideas and creativity to offer. But the fear of rejection kept me quiet. Who would care about what I had to say? I thought.
One afternoon, while organizing sketches for Aiden’s latest collection, I noticed something troubling. The sizes ranged only from 2XS to L. Even the L was incredibly small, almost like a tight M.
“Why are these sizes so limited?” I asked, holding up a sample dress, its fabric delicate but the sizing restrictive.
Aiden barely looked up from his tablet. “They’re not limited—they’re standard.”
“No, they’re not,” I said, shaking my head. “Most women wouldn’t fit into this L. And we market our clothes as inclusive.”
He glanced up at me, a smug look on his face. “Sweetheart, just because you can’t fit doesn’t mean no one else can.”
His words burned, but I pressed on. “My body is average. Who exactly are we designing for—models?”
“For beautiful women,” he replied with a dismissive wave, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.
I started to argue again, but he cut me off with a sharp gesture. “You’re getting bold,” he said coldly.
I froze, feeling the weight of his disapproval on my shoulders. I should have fought back. I should have stood my ground. But instead, I sighed, frustrated, and went back to my task.
The breaking point came later that week when I overheard Aiden in the HR office. “I can’t have her working here anymore,” he said. “She’s ruining the company’s image.”
“She’s skilled,” the HR representative replied. “We haven’t found anyone with her expertise.”
“I don’t care,” Aiden snapped. “I can’t stand having that fat girl around.”
His words hit me like a punch to the gut. I felt my chest tighten, and tears pricked my eyes. But as I sat at my desk, my anger started to rise. If he won’t see my value, I’ll make sure my work does.
When the day of the collection’s debut arrived, I knew it was my chance to show them all. I worked day and night on my designs, putting together a collection that celebrated true inclusivity.
When the runway show began, my models walked the catwalk. These weren’t the skinny, cookie-cutter figures Aiden had wanted. They were real women—diverse, beautiful, and powerful in their own right. Each one represented beauty in a way that mattered.
The audience erupted in applause. The cheers were deafening, and I felt a wave of pride wash over me. Aiden was furious, but I didn’t care.
When the announcer called for the designer, I stepped forward, my heart pounding in my chest.
The crowd’s cheers and smiles were enough to tell me everything I needed to know. I had done it. I had proven my worth. Not with words, but with my work. I had broken barriers, challenged beauty standards, and redefined what it meant to be beautiful.
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