What Interning for NYFW Taught Me About Being Alone

Is there a movie that stands out so vividly you can remember exactly where you were the first time you watched it? One that left such an impression you can still recall the thoughts racing through your mind as each scene unfolded? For me, that film was “The Devil Wears Prada.” I was only seven when I first saw it — arguably far too young — but it changed me. From that moment on, a new passion arose: living in New York City and working in the fashion industry.

As I grew up, however, a different lifefuture was already mapped out for me. I was going to be a doctor, just like so many in my family before me. I was good at science. I liked helping people. It made sense. Still, beside my bed, my stack of Vogue magazines waited quietly while I memorized chemical equations, telling myself fashion was only a hobby. Choosing healthcare slowly stopped being a plan and started becoming a personality, and every step I took felt less about medicine and more about getting myself to New York.

By my fifth trip to the city that year, something shifted. In a quiet coffee shop, I sat alone with my thoughts, realizing that the next several years of my life might be productive but not passionate. While I was lost in that realization, I overheard a woman nearby talking about a photoshoot she was planning.

I have always been someone who speaks up, so I could not resist asking her about it. What began as a simple question turned into a conversation about my life, about being pre-med while quietly longing for something more. She listened, then looked at me with steady confidence and said, “Girl, what are you doing? No one really, truly cares.” The words were blunt, almost harsh, but they landed with undeniable force. What mattered was not the sting, but the shift they created in me. When I returned home from that trip, I changed my major and told no one. Was it impulsive? Maybe. But it felt honest in a way nothing else had. As the weeks passed, my confidence grew steadier, less fragile. Eventually, I told my friends and family. Their reactions were almost identical. “Where did this come from?” “You’re wasting your potential.” “It’s just a hobby.” The words stung, and of course I questioned myself. But whenever doubt started to creep in, I remembered what she had told me not even a month before: no one really, truly cares. 

Photography by Izya Lebtahi

A month later, after what felt like hundreds of cold emails sent into the void, I somehow landed an internship with New York Fashion Week. I stepped into the opportunity with almost no real experience, just one clear realization: I was about to spend a week alone in New York City during one of the busiest moments in the fashion industry. Strangely, that thought brought me comfort. I had visited the city countless times before, but this time was different. This time I wasn’t just wandering its streets;. I was working alongside some of the top names in fashion, completely on my own. The independence thrilled me, even as the magnitude of it all felt undeniably daunting.

One thing about me is I crave social interaction. I used to refuse to eat alone and hate driving without someone on the phone. I fill every quiet moment with conversation. I lived and breathed connection. Being alone felt unnatural, almost unsettling. 

About an hour into my solo trip, one thought settled heavily over me: I am really being thrown into the lion’s den. I am about to be completely on my own. We often say that college teaches independence, and in many ways it does, but for me it provided the opposite. It gave me constant company. Living in a dorm my second year, I am almost never truly alone unless I am driving to pick up groceries. I realize now that I avoid solitude whenever I can. Being alone means sitting with my own thoughts, and that kind of silence has never felt comfortable to me.

Photo courtesy of Haley Will

The first show I worked was for Claire Camai at Rehab Studios. I was told to arrive at 10 a.m., but no one really explained what I would be doing. All I knew was that I had to be there. I walked in completely alone, not recognizing a single face, and within minutes I was handed tasks without introduction. I was steaming racks of clothing, photographing looks andrunning garments from one corner of the room to another. There was no time to overthink the fact that I knew nobody. The energy was fast and sharp, almost electric. In the middle of it all, I noticed the designer moving quickly from model to model, answering questions, adjusting pieces and coordinating details. Each time someone asked her how she was doing, she gave the same answer: “I’m so stressed. So overwhelmed.” Then she would pause and add, “But overwhelmed with happiness. With gratitude.”

Watching her stopped me in my tracks. She was carrying the weight of months of work, maybe years, and yet she stood there choosing gratitude in the middle of chaos. It forced me to reframe the way I think about stress. I am so quick to say I am overwhelmed by school, by the future, by uncertainty, by feeling alone in it all. But there she was, overwhelmed because her designs were about to debut on a stage in New York City. It made me realize that stress is not always a sign you are in the wrong place. Sometimes it means you are exactly where you are meant to be. Yes, I was alone. Yes, I was overwhelmed. But looking around that room, surrounded by ambition and creation, I understood something new: what a privilege it is to be stressed about something you love. And maybe being alone in that room is not a weakness. Maybe it is part of earning your place in it.

Later that week, when someone asked me to handle a last-minute change backstage without much instruction, I didn’t freeze. I didn’t look around for reassurance. I just did it. And in that small, quiet moment, I understood that I was no longer just visiting the city I dreamed about. I was working in it. Alone, yes. But capable.

Backstage at Fashion Week, clipboard in hand and voices echoing around me, I felt like I had stepped into the very world that once flickered across my childhood television screen. Stylists rushed past in black, garment bags zipped and unzipped in a frenzy, heels clicked sharply against concrete floors.

For years, I had romanticized this exact chaos. I had imagined the skyline, the outfits, the ambition. At seven years old, “The Devil Wears Prada” looked like glamour and power and certainty. But standing there alone, no one waiting for me at the end of the day, I realized the film had always been about something deeper. It was about pressure. It was about carving out your identity in a world that does not slow down for you.

Each night, when I returned to my hotel in complete silence, I understood that this was the part no one glamorizes. The independence. The stillness. The confrontation ofwith your own thoughts after the noise fades. Andy’s story was never just about fashion; it was about learning who you are when no one is guiding you. Fashion Week forced me into that same lesson. For the first time, I was not someone’s daughter fulfilling expectations or a student following a prescribed path. I was simply myself, alone in the city I had dreamed about for years, realizing that solitude is not something to fear. It is something that shapes you.

Strike Out,
Writer: Haley Will
Editor: Olivia Evans
Haley Will is an editorial writer for Strike Magazine GNV who hopes to build a career in New York’s fashion industry. She spends her time studying fashion, booking trips she probably shouldn’t, and learning to be comfortable on her own. Reach her when she’s not checking train prices to NYC. You can reach her on instagram @haleycwill or haleywill128@gmail.com