The nervous system of entering NYFW without credentials
Why exposure rewires hierarchy faster than an invite
There should be a peer-reviewed study on overpacking as a biometric indicator of anxiety.
I brought 65 pounds of clothing to New York for four days.
The suitcase dragged through gray, knee-high snowbanks like I was hauling evidence.
That’s not fashion. That’s negotiation.
My chest was tight the entire Uber ride from JFK. Not inspirational-tight. More like, “I paid to be here and this needs to justify itself” tight. The kind where you keep checking your reflection in the blacked-out window like the glass might confirm you belong.
For context: I was not invited to anything.
No laminate badge clipped to a wool coat.
No PR contact texting “see you at 5.”
No seat assignment with my name printed in Helvetica.1
If you attend Fashion Week without credentials, you don’t attend. You forage.
You scroll hashtags. You zoom into strangers’ Instagram stories looking for barricades and step-and-repeats. You DM photographers you’ve never met like a polite, slightly feral intern explaining it’s your first year.
Truly — I expected to feel invisible. Anthropologist-with-good-boots energy. Observe, document, leave relatively untouched.
…
[ what actually happened ]
Lately, I’ve been obsessed with tracking my own internal recalibrations — the exact moment the body updates before the ego does. And one of those moments happened outside the Calvin Klein show.
The air was knife-cold. Cold enough it felt like your breath tried to be visible — but gave up.
I stepped into the usual street-style choreography — pause, pivot — and the cameras closed in.
Not one. Many.
And a couple of quick interviews.
“Who are you wearing?”
“What’s inspiring your look?”
For a minute, I wasn’t observing the scene. Y’all — I was fucking in it.
Cameras clicking in bursts. Someone adjusting my collar with surgical precision. The whole thing moving on cold adrenaline and muscle memory.
I nodded, thanked everyone, stepped aside, walked over to my friend, Caroline — heart racing, face neutral. Composure is a skill I’ve selectively mastered.
Then a black SUV door opened.
Elsa Hosk stepped out.
If you’ve followed fashion long enough, Elsa occupies a specific neural category. Not just beautiful — myth-adjacent. Victoria’s Secret Angel turned founder. A woman I’ve watched from a distance for years while building my own not-so-quiet ambition.
And she began taking photos exactly where I had just been standing.
Same pavement.
Same light bouncing off winter-pale buildings.
Same patch of slush melting into black asphalt.
Same cluster of cameras shifting formation like birds.
The sidewalk did not shimmer. There was no celestial lighting cue. No invisible velvet rope revealing itself to me in hindsight.
It was just concrete, slightly wet.
Which is exactly when my brain stopped romanticizing it.
When you physically occupy the same coordinates as someone you’ve mentally categorized as “icon,” your nervous system updates its operating system. The aura collapses. Geography replaces fantasy.
The sidewalk doesn’t know the difference between you. Which means most of the hierarchy was neurological.
Before this trip, I almost bought an entirely new wardrobe.
I stood in a local Cincinnati boutique staring at a sharper blazer, a more editorial balloon pant, a version of myself that looked pre-approved.
Not because I needed clothes. Because I mistook aesthetic upgrade for structural validation. The fashion machine trains you to believe legitimacy can be expedited through checkout.
Sharper tailoring.
Cleaner silhouette.
Higher price point.
As if authority lives in fabric.
It doesn’t.
Authority lives in exposure.
Had I shown up in a completely new costume,2 I might have confused novelty with confidence. Instead, I wore what I owned — pieces I’ve sweated in, written in, built in — and let the environment test me.
And here’s what surprised me most.
The ecosystem feels tense right now — economically uncertain, politically loud, retail headlines collapsing in real time. Everyone bracing.
I expected that tension to translate socially.
Sharp elbows. Closed faces. Hierarchy thick in the air.
Instead, I found micro-bridges of kindness.
A photographer replying immediately to a cold DM.
A show address forwarded without hesitation.
A Vogue-recap fashion girl complimenting my jacket like it was standard procedure.
Those moments landed harder than they should have. In a climate that feels tight, softness feels strategic.
And I’ll be so real, when I got back to Cincinnati, I cried:
Which, yes, dramatic. But neurologically sound.
Your nervous system can only hold so much awe before it needs to discharge. There’s something destabilizing about standing inches away from your dreams and then returning to your kitchen counter.
The adrenaline drains. The snow becomes '“Midwestern” again. The glamour becomes memory.
But, alas — the recalibration remains.
The version of me who stood on that sidewalk — uninvited, uncredentialed, steady under camera flashes — is not hypothetical.
She’s not a mood board.
She’s not a future self.
She exists.
There’s a difference between reinvention and rehearsal.
Reinvention says, “I’ll become her first. Then I’ll enter.”
Rehearsal says, “I’ll enter. And the environment will stretch me.”
You don’t become ready in private. You become ready through exposure. Through letting your nervous system realize the street is just concrete. The icons are human. The hierarchy is negotiable.
Sometimes the only authority you need is the willingness to drag 65 pounds of ambition through snowbanks and stand on the pavement anyway.
*yet ;)
intentional word choice
You are such a badass