Fashion Week was all I expected it to be, sort of.

This September, The Michigan Daily’s most stylish writers to New York Fashion Week to seek out the coolest collections and exclusive events. We scoured the Big Apple in search of what’s new in fashion and culture this upcoming spring and summer — this is what we found.

I recently was scrolling through Instagram when one of my favorite poets, Joy Sullivan, posted a promotion for her Substack captioned, “Write what you (wish you didn’t) know. I dare you to write what you wish you didn’t know. Your weird insecurities, your loneliness, the fact your dog isn’t fully housebroken or your toddler always cries or you’re a poet with writer’s block.” I am a writer with writer’s block, but here’s what I don’t want you to know.

I went to New York Fashion Week. I posted about it on every social media platform, sharing my success to all who would listen, singing from the skyscrapers of Manhattan, “I AM IN NEW YORK AND I AM SO COOL.” I am a style writer for The Michigan Daily, and I am at the New York Fashion Week.

Don’t get me wrong, Fashion Week was probably the coolest experience of my life. I got to talk to designers and influencers and take photos of random people on the street whose outfits cost more than my entire life. I felt like the coolest girl in all of New York City. I finally had something tangible that proved my success. It wasn’t like writing; even if I thought I had written the best collection of 800 words that the world has ever seen, not everyone would agree. Fashion Week is impressive no matter how you feel about my writing. Not everyone gets to meet a designer’s mother or awkwardly get posted on an influencer’s Instagram story as a “thank you” for taking photos of them.

I felt such intense imposter syndrome in the head-to-toe Zara I bought at the last minute on Fifth Avenue. I was so excited to arrive, but when I did I felt so out of place. I didn’t keep up with fashion. I even thought these collections were for fall 2024 — an insane lack of knowledge now knowing it was for spring/summer 2025. I couldn’t run into Miu Miu to grab some kitten heels or post on my Instagram asking for brands to dress me for the events. My resources were the stores on Fifth Avenue that had two dollar signs on Google. But I had to get new clothes. Wearing the four outfits I packed for two days was not an option. My platform Doc Martens bought by my ex-boyfriend from junior year of high school carried me around the shows, worn toes and broken laces proving that I was an outsider. Absent of any nepotism or familiarity, I had to blend in. 

I relied on Cece, my editor, to carry the two of us through the conversations. She is the coolest — so up-to-date on trends and familiar with the fashion industry. She was, and still is, exactly who I wanted to be that week. I was mostly silent, using my roommate’s camera to snap photos of everything I thought looked cool with no real method to the madness.

These events were full of influencers that were desperate for content to keep their online persona up to date with their physical existence, begging me to send them photos I took and then unfollowing me immediately after. It was all very plastic and quick. Here I was, a girl who was so nervous to even come to New York — my favorite place in the world — that I had to beg my sisters to come with me to ease my nerves. I felt like nothing more than a child, still begging my sister to hold my hand on the first day of school.

It was so easy to get caught up in this fantasy that was Fashion Week — layered skirts and bold jewelry, a facade intensified by the pretension in the foul-smelling air. My sisters reminded me of everything I am — most notably, lucky as hell to be there, living a dream I didn’t think would ever be possible.

The worst part was that I was reinforcing the facade myself. Posting on Instagram stories, “Sry gotta work!” and photos with the intricate drinks from Sperry’s curated menu. My followers were none the wiser. “Coolest ever.” “Sarah, you’re so cool!”  

I guess you all fell for it. I am totally not incredibly insecure and praying to god that you guys think I’m cool enough to be there. I prayed that none of the designers could see that my fast-fashion pieces by underpaid workers had poorly-sewn buttons and that my brandless, thrifted purse was only pretending to be Prada, just like its wearer. 

Once again, my Instagram highlight reel perpetuated the cycle. I bought the sleek new clothes despite not needing them and knowing the buttons would fall off in the wash.  Thinking about other people seeing my posts and feeling negatively because they weren’t doing what I was brought up a moral dilemma. My Instagram needs a European cigarette pack warning: “THIS IS ALL FAKE. I AM LYING IN MY BED CRYING BECAUSE I MISS MY HOMETOWN BEST FRIEND.”

The fast fashion industry wants me to feel this way. 

That mini skirt was a must-have! It made me seem more official. 

It preys on my insecurities, willing me to go out and buy more clothes — and cheaply made clothes at that — to make me feel like I temporarily belong. The designers’ collections were showcases of their art, and in a way, their personhood, a power unbeknownst to most. Fashion is supposed to be an expression, an art. Designers beg people to see their runway collections as not ready-to-wear, but as a canvas of sorts. That belief is what brought me to Fashion Week, the pursuit of getting to know someone through their clothes. I wanted to see how people are creating ever-changing street art.

But that is not accessible to most. Buying art is often not accessible, especially when runway pieces go for hundreds if not thousands of dollars even for the smallest designers. 

This leads the average person to look for alternatives: fast fashion stores that are lower-mid level in terms of price, but low-hanging fruit in terms of quality. A sea of black, white and navy blue, they leave personality at the door with the security guards.

And the industry wants to make you feel that way too. They dream of me saying “Entire outfit is Zara!” when I film an OOTD. After seeing so many designers put their hearts and souls into a collection of clothes and see for themselves how much value their art has, the motivation to break apart from the never-ending — but trending — neutrals has never been stronger. 

Fashion week was a formative experience because it was genuinely surreal — and because it highlighted how I hide behind my Instagram page.

Daily Arts Writer Sarah Patterson can be reached at sarahpat@umich.edu.

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