Model By Mistake

“Claire, if you stopped slouching so much, you’d at least look taller.” 

My mom said that while handing me a grocery list. I was thirteen. 

By sixteen, I knew exactly how I was seen. 

“Thin lips, wide hips, bulky on the sides,” my cousin once whispered during a sleepover, thinking I was asleep. 

At twenty-three, I’d mastered the art of invisibility—baggy sweaters, quiet laughs, a face tuned to “neutral.” 

But today, I sat at a café in Chicago with my two best friends, Jenna and Kate, sipping overpriced lavender lattes and pretending I didn’t feel like the third wheel in my own life. 

The place was all pink tiles, hanging plants, and white marble tables—the kind of space that made you feel prettier just for existing in it. 

“You need to try this scone,” Kate said, sliding one across the table to me. “It’s lemon lavender and probably illegal.” 

“I already had breakfast,” I murmured, tugging my sleeves over my hands. 

“Claire, one scone won’t hurt,” Jenna said. “You literally walked four blocks to get here.” 

They didn’t get it. They were beautiful in that effortless, magazine-cover way. I was… the girl people complimented for having “nice handwriting.” 

Then Kate grabbed a folded newspaper from the bench beside her. “Who even reads these anymore?” 

She flipped it open—and paused. 

“Uh. Okay, this is wild,” she said, tilting the page toward Jenna. “Look at this.” 

Jenna leaned in. Her eyes lit up. “Oh my God.” 

“What?” I asked. 

They both froze. 

“Nothing,” Kate said too fast, folding the paper and slipping it into her bag. “Just something dumb.” 

I narrowed my eyes. But before I could pry, Jenna was distracting me with talk about a new true crime docuseries and the moment slipped away. 

I didn’t know it then, but that moment—that paper—was going to change everything. 

Three weeks passed. 

My days were the same: internship at a nonprofit, awkward chats with cute baristas I didn’t dare flirt with, group texts full of memes I barely responded to. 

Then one evening, Kate called me. 

“You busy Saturday?” 

“No,” I said. “Why?” 

“Good. You’re coming with me and Jenna. Dress nice. Like, actually try.” 

I almost canceled three times before Saturday. 

I didn’t want to go wherever “dress nice” meant. 

But I showed up. 

In jeans, obviously. 

When we got downtown, I realized we were near a photo studio. My stomach dropped. 

“What are we doing here?” I asked. 

Kate and Jenna exchanged a look. 

“We entered you into something,” Kate said. “Don’t hate us.” 

“What do you mean entered me into something?” 

Jenna pulled out her phone and showed me the photo from the newspaper. 

“Looking for Models – Freshers Only. No Experience Needed. No Look Is ‘Wrong.’” 

“You filled out this application? Without telling me?” 

Kate held up her hands. “You needed a confidence boost. It’s not even an agency. It’s for a streetwear brand doing a ‘Faces of Chicago’ series. Real people. Raw photos.” 

“I’m not—” 

“You are,” Jenna said. “Claire, you’re gorgeous. You just forgot.” 

I wanted to walk away. 

But something about the idea—that a camera might see me differently than I saw myself—held me in place. 

And before I could object again, a woman in overalls and Doc Martens popped out of the studio door. 

“Claire?” she called. 

I turned. 

And stepped inside. 

Twist: 

The studio smelled like coffee and hairspray. Music played from a Bluetooth speaker. The photographer, Alex, had soft curls and silver rings on every finger. 

“You ever modeled before?” he asked, adjusting the lighting. 

I laughed. “God, no.” 

“Good. That means no weird poses. Just be you.” 

I stood stiffly in front of the camera, arms frozen at my sides. 

“Okay,” Alex said gently. “Let’s make this easier.” 

He turned the camera toward himself and took a goofy selfie. “See? No pressure.” 

I smiled. Tentatively. 

“Now look at me like you’re watching someone slowly fall in love with you, and you don’t quite believe it yet.” 

I blinked. 

“What?” 

He grinned. “Try it.” 

And somehow—I did. 

He kept clicking, talking me through each pose like we were playing. 

After twenty minutes, he lowered the camera. 

“You know what’s wild?” he said. “You have one of those faces that makes people stop scrolling. You don’t fit the mold. That’s a gift.” 

No one had ever called my face a gift before. 

A week later, the brand posted a teaser photo. 

It was me. 

Hair tucked behind one ear. Laugh lines. My real, unfiltered face. 

The comments came fast. 

“This is what we need more of.” 
“She’s beautiful. Where’s her IG?” 
“Finally—someone who looks like a person, not a filter.” 

I stared at the screen, trembling. 

I hadn’t told my family. I hadn’t told anyone at work. 

But Jenna and Kate were already texting: 

KATE: QUEEN ENERGY. 
JENNA: THE WAY MY HEART JUST BURST. 
KATE: U BETTER MILK THIS. GO FULL DUA LIPA. 

My DMs started filling. 

Among them, one from Alex. 

Alex: 

Not sure if this is unprofessional, but… want to grab dinner sometime? You made the shoot way more fun than it had any right to be. 

My heart stuttered. 

Was he just being nice? Was it part of the brand? Was this pity? 

I stared at the message for hours before replying. 

Claire: 

I’d like that. 

Our coffee date turned into a walk. 

Then a movie. Then Thai food in sweatpants. 

Alex never complimented my looks at first. He asked about my job, my dreams, the weird notebooks I filled with song lyrics I was too scared to share. 

But something still nagged at me. 

What if this attention was temporary? 

What if it was just a phase, a campaign, or a fluke? 

Then my mom saw the photo. 

“Why would they pick you?” She asked. Not cruelly. Just… plainly. Like she truly didn’t understand. 

That hurt more than anything. 

I told Alex about it. 

He didn’t try to fix it. 

He just held my hand and said, “You don’t owe your past self anything but love.” 

The brand asked me to do a follow-up shoot. 

This time, I wore my favorite green hoodie. No makeup. Hair up. 

And this time, I asked for the camera. 

Alex let me peek at the shots. 

I looked—strong. 

Not beautiful in the way I used to beg for. Not delicate. Not photo-shopped. 

But seen. 

The photo went viral again. 

A few weeks later, I was approached by a local indie magazine to shoot a cover story on “Chicago’s most refreshingly real faces.” 

Me. 

Claire. 

The girl with thin lips and soft sides. 

The girl who used to duck out of photos. 

Who now chose the camera. 

And when people asked who discovered me, I told them the truth. 

“Two girls who loved me before I ever saw myself.” 

💬 Comment Question: 

What’s one compliment you wish you heard growing up—but had to learn to believe for yourself?