Being The Diversity Pick At A Private Fashion School

Blending in? Never heard of her

I’ve always felt a pull towards the fashion industry; something I can’t quite put a name to or place. My journey has definitely not been linear, and this personal essay takes a look at where it all began.

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Hindsight is a funny thing, both a blessing and a curse.

For me, it started with a letter that felt like a miracle. After months of applications, portfolio prep, and in-person interviews with a panel of industry heavyweights after seeing a random ad in British Vogue and applying on a whim, I thought I’d landed Willy Wonka’s Golden Ticket to fashion’s inner sanctum. A full scholarship to a prestigious fashion school in London, one of the world’s fashion capitals and my home city — the kind with unrivalled access and top-tier talent. I thought I’d made it. 

But the euphoria fades fast when you realize you might not belong where you are. At least, when others think you don’t belong.

As I’ve aged, grown stronger, and somewhat wiser (though that’s up for debate), I can at last accept it for what it was. I was the only person of colour on my entire course. In other words, I was the diversity pick. And I felt it in the stares, in the questions, in the silence.

It’s not that anyone came out and said it. No one handed me a ‘token minority’ badge or anything like that. But when you know, you know. And if you’ve ever had the experience of feeling other’d, as if you’re sitting on the outside looking in, you get it. I wanted to be known for my work and my talent. But it felt like I was there to fill a quota.

Meanwhile, my peers seemed to glide through the whole experience with the effortless grace of people who had never had to explain anything to anyone because life was easy breezy. And what else could you expect when they’d be frolicking in their pieds-à-terre on weekends, being dropped off to class by personal chauffeurs in outfits that cost more than most people’s monthly rent.

After school, I raced to my retail evening shifts. On weekends, I did more of the same while my classmates posted spa selfies and boozy brunches.

All of this left me with a different kind of exhaustion — not just the long hours, but the feeling that I had to work twice as hard just to stand in the same room and take up space.

And yet, for all that hard work, imposter syndrome has never fully loosened its grip.