Ever since I could speak, dressing up was my favorite pastime. I loved princess dresses, especially Belle’s from Beauty and the Beast. I would twirl around the living room, caressing the golden fabric, layers of tulle, and ribbons with glittering rose appliqués. When I watched Judy Garland sing in full Technicolor on our old flat-screen TV, I wore a Dorothy dress for a week straight with a stuffed Toto in tow.
Back in the early 2000s, the term transgender hadn’t entered the mainstream. And so for years, I was living a double life. A girl at home, and a boy in public. I wore nondescript, androgynous clothing at school. My hair was longer than the other boys’, shoulder length, and always tangled. My typical outfit was a tie-dye shirt with corduroys, which felt confining because all I wanted to do was wear dresses.
One of my earliest and fondest memories was visiting my grandparents in Florida with my mom when I was nine years old. I was able to wear girl clothes for the first time out in public, for the entirety of the trip. My mom bought me a floral sequined dress that I wore to dinner one night. The feeling of wearing a dress outside of the house and being a girl for real was magic.
Clothing and fashion then became my compass, a way for me to explore myself and articulate my feminine identity. As a tween, my summer days were spent sitting beside the public pool, eating ice cream sandwiches, and perusing the glossy pages of Vogue. Transfixed by the textures and fabrics on the pages, I pictured myself amidst the landscapes of cascading hair, gossamer nails, and lips as bright and red as lollipops. As I ogled editorials and sniffed perfume samples, the noise of twittersing birds and screaming children playing in the shallows vanished. I was in love with this world, a world which would soon become my reality.
I transitioned socially at a new school when I was 13, the same year I was featured in a documentary called Growing Up Trans. That was my first experience in front of the camera, the beginning of my life in the public eye. Two years after the film was released, and after having taken estrogen for some time, I had a spontaneous growth spurt and was suddenly the tallest girl in my class at 6’2”. I was self conscious at first, but after realizing I was the same height as my favorite model, Karlie Kloss, those feelings dissipated.
Throughout my childhood, I attended a playgroup organized through the Gender and Family Project, which supports transgender children and their families. It was through them that I was interviewed for a story in American Vogue titled, “How the Parents of Trans Teens Are Fighting for Their Kids’ Lives,” accompanied by a photo by Inez and Vinoodh. During the pre-fitting appointment at the Vogue office, I saw the infamous wall of shoes and was able to peek into Anna Wintour’s office. I was 16, and the day of the shoot was one of the most special days of my life, a moment that changed everything. Next thing I knew, I signed with a modeling agency and was traveling to Europe for campaigns and editorials while still attending high school.
It was disorienting and stressful navigating school and a career in fashion. My love of dress-up persisted, but this time it was under a spotlight. The magazines and runways that I worshiped became the world that I was growing up in, and fashion became inextricably linked to my coming of age. At 17, it was easy to get swept up in such an unfamiliar adult world. Fashion is a tool for self-expression, but you can lose yourself in it too.
Last year, I was in the throes of an identity crisis, and could barely recognize myself. My inner angst and loneliness reached a deafening roar. That was when my therapist introduced me to the concept of Little Ariel, a manifestation of my younger self. She is open and forgiving. In moments when I am hard on myself, Little Ariel is there to remind me of the importance of self-care by treating myself with the same kindness that I would a child.
I love thinking about Little Ariel witnessing all the special moments I’ve had while modeling. She was ecstatic when I stepped into massive sea-anemone dresses for Tomo Koizumi’s spring 2020 collectsion. I wore a stunning Rick Owens gown for the September issue of Vogue, and she couldn’t believe that she was going to wear that dress one day and look and feel so beautiful. When I met Karlie backstage at a Marc Jacobs show, I felt like my middle school self was peering at us through the racks of clothing, beside herself with excitement.
I’ve sat out of two Fashion Weeks this year, which I know was essential for my mental health. It made me nervous to step away, but Little Ariel understood my reasoning, which was all that mattered. Although I’ve just become aware of her, Little Ariel has always been with me.
Recently, when visiting my mom in Connecticut, I stepped outside to bask in the summer night, the sound of cicadas, and the stars visible through the trees. Little Ariel was standing next to me wearing a Cinderella dress, another one of her favorites. The nest of blonde curls atop her head glistened in the moonlight. I showed her the Big Dipper. We held hands, quietly witnessing the breath of the twilight forest.
The most important part of spending time with my younger self is acknowledging my own power. Through her, I am reconnecting to the version of me that looks at wearing a dress to dinner as a groundbreaking moment, and every route taken in life as an adventure. We need each other. Because of her, I am finally on my own team.