People always ask how a girl like me who grew up around boats in the most picturesque seaside city wound up moving to New York City. The subtext: Who would give that up? Back in middle school and high school, Mom, Dad, and Sophie would go out on our boat on the weekends when the weather allowed for it. It was their passion. But the thing is, I get seasick. Not just a little bit queasy, but debilitatingly nauseous. So, while the rest of my family was gone, I hung around Helen’s boutique with a stack of glossy magazines, poring over each page carefully. I liked the fashion spreads and the celebrity interviews, but that’s not what drew me in. No, I couldn’t get enough of the profiles of women to watch—chic women with booming careers in cities like New York and Los Angeles. It’s like Diane von Furstenberg said after marrying a prince and building a multimillion-dollar company well before turning thirty: “I didn’t really know what I wanted to do, but I knew the woman I wanted to become.”

I knew the woman I wanted to become. I knew I wanted to do something big, something that would land me on this stool, in front of a photographer, waiting to be interviewed for one of the publications that I read as a seasick teen back in Portland.

As I get more comfortable, the photographer comes closer, moving from full-body shots to close-ups. I take a deep breath, flip my hair, and flash my biggest smile. Click, click, click, click, click. I offer what I hope is a glamorously coy, close-lipped gaze. Click. I rest my bejeweled hand on my chin and look flirtatiously off to the side. Click. The woman I wanted to become. Click. The woman I’m becoming. Click.

Once the shoot wraps up, I slip into a stall in the bathroom to change out of the fashion editor’s clothes into the ones I arrived in: a short black skirt and the most Elle garment I own, a delicately embroidered white blouse with a high collar. I knew they’d give me clothes to wear for the shoot, but I wanted to arrive in style, like I belonged here. Standing barefoot on the cold tile floor, I miss my glittering skyscraper booties from the shoot. I wish my regular black ankle boots gave me a little bit more lift. But when I see my reflection in the mirror, I regain my confidence: I look like I’ve been FaceTuned. Somehow the makeup artist carved out cheekbones and made my eyes sparkle. My hair bounces.