Big News! I Got A Modeling Agent - And I'm Reclaiming My Voice

Giving my inner little girl the freedom and safety to finally exhale.

My hands were shaking. I could feel a strange cold sweat building up around the hairs at the nape of my neck that I’d never felt before. I sat, trembling with excitement, for my name to be called.

The class sat in a semi circle, cross-legged on the low-pile carpeted floor of the music room. The teacher, and eccentric woman with spikey gray hair and a bevy of mismatched, handmade jewelry and tapestry-like drapey clothes, all of us encompassing her.

When my name was called, I stood up, wiped my clammy palms on thighs, and recited the one line I was instructed to say for my ‘audition’. The words came out incomprehensibly fast, as if my body had projectile them out of my churning stomach. There was a small giggle in the class, and I sat down with the speed of a gopher receding back to the safety of it’s hole in the ground.

I didn’t get the part. A girl smaller, cuter, and seemingly to me: more likable got the part in the play. I was all of 12 years old. There was so much I couldn’t understand:

Why had my body turned on me like that at the last minute?

Had I never stood a chance, and everyone knew it but me?

Was it a popularity contest more than about merit?

Was I not special and instead….weird?

These questions developed into suspicions, which quickly turned into beliefs. Beliefs about being likeable, the lack of safety in putting myself out there to be seen. About being weird, off, and everyone knowing it but me. One of my dearest and best friends call this ‘pizza on the face’ syndrome. The fear of their being pizza on our face and everyone can see it but us, while the smear of sauce discredits us and humiliates us without our knowing. The fear of being laughed at and being the last to know why.

A decade later, in my mid-twenties, I stood at 5am on a photoshoot for an international fashion brand for which I worked as a copywriter. Humbly writing blog posts, product descriptions and marketing ads from a windowless office.

“What size are you, can you fit a 6?” the designer asked me.

“I think so.”

“Have you modeled before?” she followed up.

“No.”

“Well, today you’re going to learn,” she said, escorting me to the hair and makeup chair.

Every part of me downplayed the situation. It was because they just needed a body, and I was the only person the right size. It was because they needed more content, and had no other option. There was no part of me accepting of having been chosen. Having been seen.

The shoot itself was awkward, but fun. I liked the feeling of the camera on me, the crew watching my every move, perfecting every beam of light falling on my body. I was - to be sure - awkward and there were moments we all laughed as I couldn’t get my body relaxed enough to follow the instructions of looking cool and at ease. I am not either of those things, naturally. I am high strung, high achieving, and highly on guard for when it will be revealed that I have been a fool, for reasons aforementioned.

For Jigsaw London Fall Campaign, Los Angeles CA

Then it happened again. A friend designed her own clothing line, and asked me to be a model. We took the photos, I had a great time, yet cringed at every photo I saw after, and downplayed the situation: “oh, she just needed someone, and it’s not important. It’s not a real clothing line. It’s just for fun. Actually, it’s kind of embarrassing I’m even in it.” I’d tell myself - and others. Hoping to buffer the upcoming shame of them inevitably telling me: you looked stupid trying, and no one wanted to see you.

And again. A friend asked me to model, and I did. The pictures were getting better, I’d admit that. But still my fear of making a fool of myself had me downplaying any accomplishments.

Shoot after shoot, I’d minimize. I’d shrink. I’d speak of the event as ‘not a real shoot’ and ‘not a big deal, just fun’. Trying to beat others to the punchline of me being a joke.

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Finally, at one of the biggest brands I’ve ever worked for, I was asked to model the new upcoming launch. The brand’s biggest in history. I agreed, reluctantly, again telling myself it was because they wanted to save on the budget. The shoot and the product unraveled - literally and metaphorically, and the launch was an embarrassing flop. I was happy I didn’t end up being the face of it. Yet there was a new part of me that said: I’m not sure I can totally deny I might be nice to look at.

The truth is: I like modeling. I love making art with my body. As I’ve said many times before:

My body is my pen, too.

A body that has been through so much: cancer treatment and the subsequent 40 pounds of steroid weight. Two eating disorders (three, if you count orthorexia). Abuse from partners. My own bullying and criticism. Months of yoga in ashrams in India. The hardship of being a waitress for 14 hours straight.

There is no denying: this body has been through it. I’m proud of her, and grateful she hasn’t abandoned me even after the years I spent telling her she wasn’t good enough.

Today, as you can see here on Substack, I take multitudes of photos of myself for my art. My writing is as entwined in the art I make with my body as my heart is to my veins.

So when I received word from a talent agency that they were interested in representing me as a professional model, I did what I always do: I downplayed.

I told myself: it’s not real, they won’t pick me. Don’t get my hopes up.