For a long time, Durban represented a chapter of my life I wanted to forget.

More than anything, I wanted to break into the fashion industry. I dreamed of working at a cool fashion magazine, of being surrounded by designer clothes and influential people. But at the time, those dreams felt impossibly far away. I didn’t know anyone in fashion. My mom worked in public health, and my dad was both a strict parent and a high school principal. I had no roadmap, no connections, and no real understanding of how to enter the industry. Still, that didn’t stop me. I taught myself how to sew and spent every chance I had sketching designs. It wasn’t until my college years that those dreams began to feel possible. Moving to Durban to study LLB Law exposed me to an entirely new world. People expressed themselves boldly, and going out wasn’t just social—it was an opportunity to show up, to be seen, to make a statement. That environment awakened something in me. It felt like my moment to prove—to myself and to those around me—that fashion and media were not just interests, but my calling.

I remember the excitement of receiving invitations to events, gaining access to well-known names in the music industry, and even connecting with people working behind the scenes. One moment stands out vividly. I found myself at a table, completely engaged in conversation, with everyone’s attention on me. It was an event hosted by one of South Africa’s biggest artists at the time, now more focused on music production. I spoke passionately about my aspirations in fashion, media, and music, and the response I received felt genuine and affirming. In those moments, I felt like I was exactly where I was meant to be. I built friendships with people involved in events and promotions—people I trusted and felt safe around. I felt incredibly fortunate to have access to spaces and information I had only ever imagined. But there was a cost. I started missing classes or arriving late. My assignments didn’t receive the attention they deserved, and while my grades were still good, they no longer reflected my full potential. At the same time, I was discovering a new version of myself. I was creating a narrative that didn’t follow the traditional path—finish school, get a job, settle down. I was exploring what it meant to be multifaceted: stylish, outgoing, creative, intelligent, and expressive. And I genuinely enjoyed it. I had always loved sharing parts of my life on social media, but during this time, my content began to shift—from academic and reserved to more expressive and entertainment-focused. To some, this change was alarming. To others, it was intriguing. My family, however, struggled with it. They were concerned—and far from impressed.

I loved sharing what I was working on—or at least what I was trying to build. I experimented with blogging on platforms like Tumblr and Blogspot, excited to express myself and document my journey. During that time, I was introduced to a Durban-based designer who had a studio in the 320 Building in the CBD. I remember feeling incredibly excited—this was my first real encounter with someone in the fashion industry. I brought my sketches, shared my ideas, and even sat in his studio drawing more, pouring out all the creativity I had been holding inside. I was eager to learn. Eager to be seen. Eager to belong. But that experience humbled me in a way I was not prepared for. He took my ideas. My sketches. And then turned them into part of his own collection. That was the first time I truly felt used. Hurt. Betrayed. It was a turning point for me. I began to question everything—especially the people around me. The same people I believed were protecting me, supporting me, and creating safe spaces for me… suddenly didn’t feel so genuine. I started to see things differently. It felt as though the more I gave, the more people wanted—and the more entitled they felt to my creativity. I also realized something deeper: the more I shared, the more I felt pressured to keep sharing, as though my worth was tied to how much I could give. And slowly, that fire inside me began to fade. I lost my spark. I hit one of the lowest points in my life and became a version of myself I didn’t recognize. But even in that, I don’t carry regret. Because of those experiences, as painful as they were, they taught me lessons no one could have taught me otherwise. Experience became my greatest teacher. It shaped my awareness, my boundaries, and ultimately, my confidence in who I am and what I bring to the table today. Over time—and after experiencing even more difficult moments—I changed. I stopped trusting people. I became defensive, anxious, and constantly on guard. Every new connection felt like a potential threat. I found myself questioning what people wanted from me, what they were going to take, and when they would eventually hurt me. And in some cases, that fear wasn’t unfounded. But living that way came at a cost. I pushed away people who genuinely cared about me. I became the villain in some people’s stories. I operated from a place of self-protection so intense that I began hurting others before they even had the chance to hurt me. Some people showed me kindness, consistency, and care—and instead of receiving it, I questioned it. I waited for the moment they would reveal their true intentions, unable to believe that their presence could be genuine.

Looking back, I see how much that mindset limited me. If we want to experience more good in the world, we must be willing to embody it ourselves. If we want to be seen as human, we must extend that same humanity to others. If we want to be trusted, we must learn how to trust again. If we want a world rooted in compassion, kindness, and respect, we must practice those values in our own lives. I’m learning to recognize the moments when I am the best version of myself—and to lean into them. Not just for my own growth, but in the hope that it encourages others to do the same. I’m learning to be grateful for the small, beautiful moments in life—because those are the moments that quietly shape everything. And I’m choosing to surround myself with people who inspire me, who bring me joy, and who remind me of what it feels like to be grounded and connected. Because loneliness, bitterness, and hurt can easily spread if left unchecked. But so can kindness. So can healing. So can growth. And that is what I am choosing now.