From the very first day I walked into the fashion industry, I was met with whispers, judgmental stares, and a boss who only saw my size, not my abilities. People doubted I deserved to be there, but I was determined to prove them wrong. I wasn’t going to let their perceptions hold me back. And when the runway lights came on, I knew it would be my moment to change everything.
I gripped my bag tightly as I walked to my new job, my heart racing and anxiety bubbling up inside me. My palms were clammy, and the nerves were real. I kept telling myself, “You’ve got this,” but the fear still lingered.
It was my first day, and while I often found reasons to worry, this time felt different—this time, it felt justified. What if they didn’t accept me? What if I made a mistake? These thoughts kept spiraling through my mind.
When I finally stepped into the sleek, glass building, my nerves only grew. I fumbled with my ID, swiping it twice before the elevator finally dinged and started moving. As the numbers on the elevator panel ascended, I repeated the mantra in my head, “You’ve got this. You’ve got this.” The doors finally opened, and I let out a deep breath.
At the reception desk sat a woman who looked like she belonged on the cover of a magazine. Her hair and makeup were perfect, and she radiated confidence.
“Hi, I’m—” I began, walking toward her.
She barely looked up at me and cut me off. “Oh, you’re the new cleaning lady. Let me show you around,” she said as she jumped to her feet and grabbed a clipboard.
I blinked in shock. “No, actually—” I started to correct her, but she was already marching ahead.
“Follow me,” she said briskly, not waiting for me to respond. “You need to familiarize yourself with the cleaning supplies. The bathrooms are down the hall; check them regularly.”
I trailed behind her, still stunned. “I’m not—”
“You’ll also handle the trash,” she continued, not even looking at me. “Take it out at the end of the day—or sooner if needed. And the break room. It’s messy, so keep it clean.”
My face burned with embarrassment. “I think there’s a misunderstanding—”
But before I could explain, we turned a corner, and there he was—Aiden, the designer I had been hired to assist.
“Christy, where’s my assistant?” he snapped, looking at me with obvious irritation. His eyes narrowed. “I hate when people are late. And who is this?”
Christy, flustered, gave an awkward smile. “This is our new cleaner.”
“Actually,” I said, my voice shaking but firm, “my name is Natalie, and I’m your new assistant.” I extended my hand, hoping I could clear up the confusion.
Christy’s eyes widened in realization. “Oh,” she murmured.
Aiden glanced at me, his gaze critical and cold. “Did HR even see you before they hired you?” he asked, his words sharp and dismissive.
I felt my heart drop at the implication, but I wasn’t about to back down. “Yes,” I said firmly, holding my ground. “I’m a professional, and I’m confident I can contribute.”
He didn’t even bother shaking my hand. “We’ll see,” he muttered before turning away.
As he walked off, I stood frozen for a moment, but then he snapped, “Are you just going to stand there?”
Flustered, I hurried after him, my heart pounding in my chest.
As we walked, Aiden muttered under his breath, “Hmm. With that weight, I doubt you can keep up. Let’s hope she doesn’t damage the equipment.”
His words stung, and I bit my lip, pretending not to hear. But his words echoed in my mind, cutting deeper than I wanted to admit.
The next two weeks were a test of my patience. What I had once dreamed of as my ideal job quickly became a nightmare. Each day, I hoped things would improve, but they only seemed to get worse. No one took me seriously. I overheard their cruel comments when they thought I wasn’t listening.
“Why doesn’t she just lose weight?” “How does someone like her work in fashion?” “She must not own a mirror.”
Each remark pierced my heart, making my already fragile confidence crumble.
I wanted to share my ideas, to prove my worth, but I was paralyzed by the fear of rejection. I convinced myself no one would ever take me seriously. Who would listen to me, after all?
Then, one afternoon, as I was organizing sketches for Aiden’s latest collection, I noticed something troubling. The sizes ranged from 2XS to L, but even the L was ridiculously small, more like a snug M.
“Why are these sizes so limited?” I asked, holding up a sample dress. The fabric was beautiful, but the sizing was obviously restrictive.
“They’re not limited,” Aiden replied, barely glancing up from his tablet. “They’re standard.”
“No, they’re not,” I argued, shaking my head. “Most women wouldn’t fit into this L. And we market our clothes as inclusive.”
Aiden looked at me, his eyes narrowing. “Sweetheart,” he said, condescendingly, “just because you can’t fit doesn’t mean no one else can.”
My face burned with embarrassment, but I pressed on. “My body is average. Who exactly are we designing for—models?”
“For beautiful women,” he shot back, as though the answer was obvious.
“Beauty—” I started, but he raised a hand to silence me.
“You’re getting bold,” he said coldly.
I froze, feeling small and powerless under his gaze. If I were truly bold, I would have stood my ground, but instead, I sighed and returned to my work, swallowing my frustration.
Later that day, I overheard a conversation between Aiden and the HR representative.
“I can’t have her working here any longer,” Aiden’s voice was sharp and full of disdain. “She’s ruining the company’s image.”
The HR rep replied calmly, “She’s skilled. We haven’t found anyone with her expertise.”
Aiden snapped, “I don’t care. I can’t stand having that fat girl around.”
His words hit me like a punch. My chest tightened, and tears burned behind my eyes. But as I returned to my desk, sadness quickly turned to anger. And from that anger, a fire was lit inside me. If Aiden wouldn’t see my worth, I would show it through my work.
The debut of the new collection was my chance. I worked tirelessly, creating designs that celebrated true inclusivity, designs for women of all shapes and sizes. When showtime arrived, I replaced Aiden’s lineup with my own. My models were real women—each one unique and beautiful in her own way, showcasing that true beauty doesn’t come in just one size.
As the lights flashed on the runway, applause erupted from the audience. The energy in the room was electric. People were excited. And Aiden? He was livid, but I stood tall, unwavering.
When the announcer called for the designer, I stepped forward with pride. The crowd cheered, their excitement washing over me, their support confirming that I had succeeded. I had proven my worth—not through words, but through action.
I had broken barriers and redefined beauty. I had shown them that size, appearance, and judgment don’t define talent or worth. I had finally taken my place in an industry that had once rejected me, and I knew I had earned it.
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