I know that if I have the confidence to step into the unknown and smile, smirk and smize in front of an intimidating photographer, I can damn well walk on the beach without a cover-up on. My confidence has doubled, tripled, soared over the past few years, as I was able to prove to myself that I was worthy of greatness-inside and out. No matter how many times I scrutinized every inch of my face or pinched globs of fat I wished I could banish, I knew I was enough. Shoving my nerves aside, I sat with my head held high in the hair and makeup chair, because this time, I knew I was there for a reason. When I walked onto set that day, I was first-date nervous, doubtful of my ability to deliver what the brand was expecting from me. Last fall, I was stunned to learn that I had booked a Reebok campaign. But to this day, every time I get confirmed for a job, my inner 16-year-old questions why anyone at that level would want to hire me. I was showing up bright and early for call times, working with companies like Forever 21, Target, Nordstrom and Old Navy. I was becoming more comfortable in my shoes (or at the very least, the three-sizes-too-big shoes they always have on set because my feet are tiny). Like a baby learning to walk, the early years of my modeling career were composed of falling down (no’s from casting directors) and picking myself back up (having test shoots and loving the photos). I did not have the ease and comfort behind the camera that seemed to come to them so naturally, and instead, I stood like a statue attempting some sort of smize. Later, during my first job, I felt like a benched player as I watched the other two models strike a pose after every camera click, as I patiently waited for my turn in the spotlight. One of the first casting calls I ever got for was for Teen Vogue, where I embarrassed myself by asking the casting agent what “profile” meant. “That is why you are going to go on this journey and be the role model for young girls that you said you wished you had growing up.”įrom there on out, I found myself in situations I had only ever daydreamed about. “Correct, you aren’t most girls,” she said. “I’m not most girls!” I remember weeping to her. She stared at me in shock as I paced the length of the room, flabbergasted that I was shedding tears over an opportunity most girls would give their right arm to have. I spent the rest of the day crying to my mom in our hotel room and babbling on about how I wasn’t up for the job and that I was in way over my head. Ironically, the crater-sized pit of fear and disbelief that sat in my chest only escalated when the agency offered me a contract on the spot. What was I thinking trying to sign a modeling contract as a teenager who was on the heavier side, semi-pimply and insecure? I imagined that if my elevator companions knew where I was going, they would die laughing. People from all walks of life and looks were brushing shoulders with me, yet I felt alienated and bizarre, like an imposter trying to pull off the heist of a lifetime. I was fear-stricken as I made my way through the crowded Midtown Manhattan streets. At the ripe age of 16, it’s hard to pretend to know the answer to anything that doesn’t involve the One Direction band members’ birthdays.
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