ONCE UPON a time, toddler Rei would place cheap plastic stickers on her face and call it makeup, doing the same to her Barbie dolls and strutting as if she was in a fashion show. When she got her first fashion design-themed sketchbook, she filled it with the most outrageous and logistically-impossible outfits that now make her cringe when she thinks about them.
Her pre-teen days were spent endlessly playing with her Harumika kit and fabrics while she dreamed about what her wedding dress would look like in the future. In grade school, when asked what her dream job is, she proudly recited that she’ll be a famous fashion designer in New York who comes up with creative collections every season.
Rei was so sure then. And, as fate would have it, she finally found her first love—one that even bested all the Prince Charmings and school crushes.
I think that this Rei still existed when I went to high school and joined the fashion design club as the only first-year there. Rei still existed when she endured being poked by needles trying to sew beads on a lace appliqué. And Rei definitely existed when she cried as she attempted to figure out the mathematics of pattern-making or went into nervous breakdowns trying to piece together annual fashion shows. The passionate Rei persevered amid trials and hardships because she knew she was pursuing her true love.
I look back at these memories as if everything were a fairytale, as if it were all part of a fictional story from a long time ago that I would not believe had happened to me at all. After all, I end up taking an entirely different course in an entirely different school. Like every misdirected art kid, I was unable to outweigh practicality with the passion I’ve always relied on.
As with any other tales of old, there are villains in this story. It may be the cruel and harsh world that tricked me with the hopes of making it big with my imagination and love for designing when in fact I might never have made it at all. It may be the silent but deadly anxiety that bubbled up as years passed by, eventually breaking me down as I declined the scholarship offer to my dream school. But alas, the villain might also be my own self for my cowardice, I ultimately failed younger Rei who had so much faith in her future self.
Before I knew it, I was saying goodbye to my dreams of designing and creating. In the end, simple passion alone does not push you further toward your dreams. You must also have courage and faith—both of which I shamefully lacked then.
Years passed. I have found a bigger purpose for myself in a new but slightly similar field. I was beginning to make amends with my past and form new goals for the future. I knew that I would still be able to make younger Rei proud with my new passion now that makes me as happy as fashion design did. As long as it makes me happy and keeps me alive with purpose and service to the community, I am willing to love again.
Of course, I still grieve at the fact that I am now just a mere audience member to my first love of designing and creating—cursed to watch it from afar in pictures of Met Gala costumes, in late-night thoughts of what-ifs and what-could-have-beens. I still fear the day that my high school classmates will ask me why I never pursued fashion design when it’s the only thing I’ve been uniquely good at. And I am even more afraid of the moment I wake up one day and suddenly forget the memories I had with designing.
Thankfully, somewhere in the back of my closet, my old pattern rulers are still there. They gather dust while my sketches of fashion figures wither away in time. Tucked away in boxes are garments I poured my soul into, representative of my expression and love. These artifacts, along with this retelling and my memories of designing, keep me safe and reassured. These are the only pieces that prove my fairytale wasn’t a fever dream.
I desperately hold onto them, in the hopes that I will be able to reunite with my first love once again in happily ever after.
