Everyone thinks being a fashion journalist is basically living inside The Devil Wears Prada—minus the emotional damage, plus better lighting. Let me ruin that fantasy for you. I’ve been there. I was that girl. And trust me, it’s colder, messier, and far less cinematic.

Back in 2009, after sending what felt like a lifetime’s worth of desperate emails and applications, I finally got my break. Hachette said yes. ELLE UK and Sugar Magazine. Cue dramatic music, right?

Wrong.

There were three of us—bright-eyed, mid-20s, convinced we were about to become the next big voices in fashion journalism. We bonded instantly, probably because we were equally delusional. We imagined glossy bylines, our names printed in bold, maybe even a cheeky column with our faces next to it.

Reality check: blogging was barely a thing, and getting your own voice heard? Nearly impossible.

Instead of glamorous front-row moments, my days looked more like this: me, freezing in December London, wearing a questionable H&M snakeskin mini skirt and a glittery turtleneck, wandering around Tottenham Court Road. My mission? Stop strangers, ask awkward questions, collect emails, and pretend this was all very editorial and important… while slowly losing feeling in my fingers at 1°C.

Very chic. Very fashion.

Two of us—me and my French colleague—did everything. Brainstorming, organizing, cleaning up chaos, trying to prove we deserved a shot. Then there was the third girl. Lovely, yes. Also from an extremely wealthy family. Let’s just say… her articles somehow made it to publication more often than ours. Funny how that works when your father financially supports the magazine.

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Plot twist: she got the job.

But here’s the thing—no bitterness. (Okay, maybe just a tiny, stylish amount.)

Because that experience? It mattered. Walking into those offices, being part of ELLE and Sugar, running around Oxford Street like a slightly overdressed intern on a mission—it taught me more than any glamorous fantasy ever could.

It showed me what fashion journalism really is: not always polished, rarely easy, and definitely not a movie montage.

But still? Worth it.

Because somewhere between frozen fingers, chaotic brainstorming, and unreal expectations… I figured out what I actually wanted.

Not just glamour.

Fashion—with a bit of grit.