I remember, in the house in Westchester, forcing my big brothers to help me cut out the outfits I saw in magazines, pasting the pictures on sloppily drawn paper dolls I’d made, and then directing Oliver and Theo to parade my gang down the staircase banister, demanding they hold the dolls right, make sure their two-dimensional outfits found the best light.

As a teenager, I’d been a fine artist first with an expertise in collaging and figure drawing. I’d gone to NYU to earn a BFA. But my childhood love of fashion—the production, the aura and sensibility and mythologies around different designers and labels stayed with me and eventually became my new passion. I realized, during a summer internship at alice + olivia, that it was the process of it all, right down to the branding of the designers themselves, that really interested me. I knew I could make a career out of building up a brand, positioning it uniquely in a world already saturated with new, innovative companies. That was where the real authority lay; everyone thinks it’s about the face of a brand, the designer, but the real power lies in the direction, the execution.

And I’d done that. I’d been Huda’s fucking camel the past few years, carrying her load, doing all her work, building Magdelena into what it is today, with absolutely no thanks. No credit. Scrubbed away from the website the day I was fired.

For the alice + olivia internship, for all of my internships and jobs following that one, I’d done all I could to make myself the leading candidate whenever a bigger position opened up at that company or the next one. I was always the most polished, the most presentable, the most articulate, the hardest working. I developed new strengths, like becoming a data-analysis whiz and a spreadsheet queen. And always, I was the chosen one. Oh, I had my techniques. I gathered intel from eavesdropping, checking bosses’ emails, figuring out who else might be hired on my team. I would research them, ensure that there was no way they could eclipse me. I’d mention in passing how disorganized I’d heard that other high-powered fashion person could be, or drop a hint about how a prospect had only gotten ahead because her daddy’s law firm represented Condé Nast. I landed an “it girl” to be brand ambassador for a fledgling streetwear company I briefly worked for, because her agent had a huge crush on me, which I encouraged, of course. I routinely took advantage of coworkers’ weaknesses. All to stay ahead, ensure my path. But who am I now?