I always knew I wanted to be a designer. Not just someone who stitched fabric, but someone who stitched stories into every seam. My parents didn’t understand—they wanted stability, not risk. But I couldn’t let go of the dream that made my heart race. I worked late shifts, sketched during breaks, and poured every ounce of myself into my portfolio. When I finally got accepted into a prestigious design school, I thought I’d made it. But reality hit harder than I expected.
Tuition was brutal. I juggled three jobs, barely slept, and still couldn’t keep up. My classmates had resources I couldn’t afford—fancy software, private tutors, connections. I felt like I was drowning in a sea of privilege. One night, after a brutal critique, I almost quit. But something inside me refused. I reminded myself why I started: to tell stories through design that no one else could. I stopped comparing and started creating from my truth.
Then came the breakthrough. A professor noticed my raw style and offered mentorship. I entered a national competition with a piece inspired by my childhood—threadbare clothes, vibrant dreams. I won. Suddenly, brands were calling, interviews were happening, and my name was being whispered in rooms I never imagined entering. I wasn’t just surviving—I was rising.
Now, I design for people who feel unseen. Every stitch carries my journey, every piece speaks for someone who’s been told “you’re not enough.” I didn’t walk away. I walked through fire. And now, everything’s on the line—but it’s mine to hold.
