The Model Diaries: The Bad.

The Model Diaries: The Bad.

Welcome to The Model Diaries, a 3-Part feature exploring and exposing The Good, The Bad and The Bat Shit Crazy events and experiences of my life as a glamour model. Parental Warning: Expect nudity, alcohol, guns and lots of WTF moments.


As the great Marian Wright Edelman once said, In every seed of good there is always a piece of bad. With the tremendous highs of my career came some crashing lows. The rejection, the waiting, the lies, the late payments, the never payments, the broken promises and the constant attack on your image. Of course, you go into this career knowing you are trying to get a job because of the way you look. If you grasped at the root of it’s definition and tugged on it’s weeds you would be floored by the reminder that you chose to be judged, to have your petals plucked off by a passing stranger. But no one’s trunk is that strong to not be shifted by the storm of critiques that shower upon on you in weekly downpours. By your agent, the client, the casting director, the make-up artist, the readers, the twitter followers, the YouTube commenter’s. I listened to Fearne Cotton’s podcast “Happy Place” recently where she spoke with Emma Willis about her time as a model. Emma, being the God-like woman she is shared how her self-proclaimed glass half-empty ‘this won’t last forever’ attitude helped her deal with the fact not everyone is going to like the way she looked, and that she was okay with that. This is the attitude you aspire to reach, the IDGAF vibe. Some days are easier than others, some days you go ‘Eh, oh well I wasn’t the right fit’ and you just move on. The days when it’s harder to do this is when someone highlights something that you already hate about yourself.

When you’re the face of pubes being back in fashion in Australia. (Picture Magazine)

I used to shoot Page 3 for one of the newspapers and the photographer had a reputation for ahem- ‘saying it like it is’ shall we say. You’d walk into the studio with baited breath, hoping that this time you’d get a pass and she’d fail to mention your wonky boobs. “Your eyebrows need doing; Your nails are awful; Learn how to curl your eyelashes; Are you moisturising your skin” – This was just the onslaught from the make-up chair. You nod along sweetly whilst inside your budding flower is now shrinking through shame and embarrassment. After the most recent downpour which has left you feeling like a rat drowned in your own misery, now you have to step on set for the shoot and pretend you feel real sexy about all your flaws. The blasé comments spill onto the hardwood floor as you stand around, desperate to impress whilst contemplating just how much you need the £300 to simply be insulted all afternoon. “You can’t wear this because you’re too big”, “Lift your arm up because you’re left boob is saggy”, “You can’t do that pose because you have chunky legs”, “When are you going to get your teeth done?” Oddly there was something extremely intriguing about this woman. She was hurting your feelings but you still respected her, she was kind of…. sweet. Much like a crazy aunt who slags off your outfit and flirts with your boyfriend, she’s not being that offensive, but you’re definitely not offering her your couch for the night when she argues with Uncle Bill after downing a bottle of vodka. I’ve heard she’s made many girls cry when they left her studio, but we all went back anyway; Whether through some fuckery of wanting her approval or really needing some money for your big night out in Oceana on the weekend to meet Gaz from Geordie Shore. Being told the shit things you already know about you is well, shit.

Next comes the interviews. Those shitty, demeaning, dehumanising interviews. I once went through the effort of having a test shoot done for Valentine’s Day, with the idea that the photographer and my agent would try sell the pics to one of the publications and earn us all some solid queen elizabethz£££. To start with, the whole context of the shoot was just cringe and lacked any smidge of creativity, with it’s white wall back drop and heart foiled balloon. The photographer was hating it, I was hating it, and it was ironically a big fuckery of loathness for what was supposed to be the most romantic and heartfelt day of the year. After battling on (first world problems IKR) through the shoot and getting dem’ money shot$$$ we managed to secure an image sale to the Daily Mirror. Wooooo. The glamour. A woman from the newspaper phoned me up to do the interview which was going to accompany the images. “Hi Jess, I’m just going to ask you a few questions” Sure, fab, yeah, continue. “What’s your favourite sex position?” _______________________ Flat lined. My eyes rolled to the back of my head as I couldn’t comprehend a reason why the fuck I would divulge this information to you, to tell your thousands of readers, the possibility of my parents seeing, to be belittled down to nothing but a sex move and for what exactly? The Twenty Five Quid a picture you’re going to pay me? No thanks hun. “I don’t answer questions like that sorry”. “Oh, okay well next one. What’s your signature move in the bedroom?” _______________ *my eyes have come full circle by now* “I don’t answer questions like that sorry”. “Well um, they’re all like that really so do you want to have a think and get back to me in an hour?”. It took me 1.5 seconds to think. I’m not doing it. My agent continued to tell me how they won’t use the images without the interview, how they were only words, how my career was only worth the £75 they were going to pay me and the privilege of being known as Doggy Davies for the rest of my life. Okay I made that last bit up. But it’s safe to say that that one was filed under the ‘How I’ve wasted my life instead of working towards having a ‘real’ job saving other peoples lives‘ folder.

Let’s talk about the photoshoots with people who you don’t actually know. Who you’ve never met. Who aren’t a brand, a magazine, a company. I am honestly flabbergasted that there isn’t more horror stories out there of models being abused or exploited in these situations. Although being in the Harvey Weinstein era I am sure that there are unfortunately many out there, who felt and still feel like they couldn’t speak up without it affecting their career. British Glamour Model Chloe Ayling’s story of her being drugged and kidnapped by some dickhead in Milan after being lured there for a fake photoshoot was unfathomable for some people to believe, but I was just shocked that this was one of the first times it had happened (or that we’ve heard about at least- we’ve all watched Taken). You rock up as a young woman on your own, to a location which is usually isolated i.e a hotel room, an apartment, a studio etc, to meet someone- usually a man in this industry- that you have never met, and then strip off and have your pics taken. When you type it out like that it sounds fucking ludicrous. How could I be so stupid? But you put trust in your agent, in your colleagues, in the industry. That everyone is in the same boat and just trying to make a living out of it. I’ve had a couple photographer’s be a little bit handsy when moving you into positions that made me freeze up and think plz stop touching me. Would I of felt awkward if we were on a big set with ten other people around? No, probably not. But when you’re in a two ft by two ft hotel room by yourself the situation is a tad more intimidating. Read the room guys.

Talking of trusting your agent, early on in my career I was booked for a job for ‘Harley Davidson Magazine’ – Does this even exist? Did it ever exist? Who fucking knows. It definitely isn’t something I’ve found on Google. Anyway, young and full of enthusiasm I headed down to London to meet the photographer Sal* (name changed cos I don’t wanna die.) I walked into the studio which was on an industrial type-esque estate and was greeted by Sal, a big bald chap. He seemed friendly enough and I sat down to get my hair and make-up done. What unfolded was one of the strangest shoots I’ve ever experienced. First off the clothes he handed me- some random Marilyn Monroe type floaty dress. A corset. I think some leather was thrown in there. It was all just so fucking random and I remember thinking…. What the fuck does this have to do with Harley Davidson? I plodded through the shoot until we hit a stumbling block. “Have you ever experienced real sadness in your life?” ….. “I want you to cry and look really sad”….. “Think of someone close to you who has died”….. Erm. WTF. Yes, I’m sure all professional lad mag’ shoots want you to cry on camera about your deceased family member whilst wearing pleather and wishing you were the one who was dead. I think I realised quite quickly after the crying request that this was probably not a photoshoot for a magazine. Thank fuck I didn’t shoot topless at the time because things could have got really weird, really fast. The whole shoot just left me with a weird vibe and I was glad to get out of there. I told my agent that I wasn’t happy with how the shoot went and that I wouldn’t be shooting with Sal again. A few months later and without seeing any pictures from the shoot or publication of these images (there’s a surprise) my agent emails to inform me Sal wants to shoot with me again. Yeah I’m not doing that. I told her that after the last time I’d already made it pretty obvious that I didn’t have a burning desire to go and weep about my personal life with my tits half out to an old man again. Weird that. Skip to a few weeks later when I’m cruising down the coast of West Wales for the weekend when I get an angry message from my agent. “WHERE R U?” Erm just passed through that well known seaside town of Aberaeron, why? “UR SUPPOSED TO BE SHOOTING WITH SAL TODAY! I CONFIRMED IT” Oh my bad, because what part of “He makes me uncomfortable I’m not shooting with him again” did I not make clear? “Don’t put anything on twitter and I’m going to have to say you broke down on your way there” Or maybe just tell him I don’t want to shoot with him again cos he wanted me to shed tears. This news did not go down well with Sal. Sal was not happy. Sal tweeted about unprofessional models “breaking down” on the way to the shoot (Fair play Sal, I wouldn’t of believed it either). Sal then proceeded to tweet me asking when I was going to fix my teeth. Sal mad. Be less like Sal.

Trusting your agent. Ahhh this could be a theme. Perhaps the ultimate horror story of my life as a glamor model falls under this umbrella. A betrayal of trust I’ve never really discussed, or ever really confronted. But we’ll leave that one for the book, shall we?


Keep an eye out for the 3rd and final feature of The Model Diaries, aka The Crazy, coming to Jabber With Jess soon! In the mean time be sure to spend your lunch breaks trawling through the rest of my blog posts and let me know what you think!

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The Model Diaries: Introduction (The Good, The Bad and the Batshit Crazy)

The Model Diaries: Introduction (The Good, The Bad and the Batshit Crazy)

Hello there! If you’re still here and reading this blog in the New Year then you must be bored thank you! As I delved into in my previous blog post (shameless plug but give it a read here) then you’ll know that 2018 was a heavy 12-months of many emotions for me, but finally starting this blog was a task I managed to cross off my shopping-list of life and provided me with an outlet to jabber (always on brand) on about the many things in which occupy my mind. And thank the LAWD above for not leaving my high and dry, over 18,000 of you have held my hand and joined this journey with me over the last four months since it’s launch date. You are awesome! With your generosity and support in mind, I wanted to give a little back to my #dayonefans who have stuck by me since my days as the new, slightly bewildered ZOO girl, to my current “weird phase” of being “pretty nuts” (still the best review of the blog out there); Here’s introducing my new 3-Part Feature “The Model Diaries”, where I’ll be exposing some of The Good, The Bad and The Batshit Crazy events and experiences I’ve encountered throughout my career as a Glamour model.

Not to say you’re all perverts or anything- ahem– but my most popular blog entry to date is on my Life As A Glamour Model, and after receiving a few requests on Instagram (feel free to let me know of any topics you think I should be chatting about on here!) for similar content I thought 2019 was high time I gave the people what they want: Stories about tits. I will be sharing some of my most memorable memories and mishaps as a model in the hope of providing you, and especially any specific glamour mag’ fans, an exclusive behind the scenes insight to the industry and lives of it’s stars.

Parental Warning: Expect nudity, alcohol, guns and a lot of WTF moments.

Keep an eye out for the First Part Feature, coming soon! ❤


Less Fast, More Sass: The Fashion Revolution

Less Fast, More Sass: The Fashion Revolution

Hi , my name is Jessica Davies and for 10 years I have been a slave to fast fashion. Phew, it always feels better when you say it out loud. For as long as my bank account can remember, I have been a whore to cheap online stores who lined my inbox with flash sales and 50% discounts. From splashing my Saturday job wages (all £15 a day of it) on Boohoo when I was 15, to Missguided hauls as a skint 18 year old student and right up to my present ancient 25 year old self, panic-buying cheap last minute festival garms’ on PrettyLittleThing; it may come as a surprise to some of you but I am a huge bargain hunter when it comes to fashion. 95% of the time I’ll only ever buy if there’s a sale on or if I have a discount code. Seriously, has anyone ever sorted their browsing by Price High>>>Low?! I am constantly scouring the internet for 20% off coupons and a last minute under £20 night-out look that I can spruce up by painting a decent face and throwing on some trusty *bigger the hoop, bigger the hoe'” hoops.

My flat is filled with Ikea bags over-flowing with clothes, clothes that I barely even like, clothes that I brought because I would rather spend £15 on a dress I tolerate than upload a picture on Instagram of me in the same dress I wore out two months ago. I will openly admit that I have bought more clothes than I need, more clothes than I could ever use. And the problem is, brands have made it so fucking easy for me to do this, I would even say they encourage it. Enticing me with secret sales and infiltrating my phone with their apps and early access codes; paying influencers to front their campaigns and flooding my social media with promotions and celebrity “edits”. Instagram has exploded fast-online fashion to astronomical sales, but what may have been on-trend this week, can end up in the basement bin by tomorrow morning. Because as soon as Kylie Jenner stops wearing it, we all move onto the next style like an army of cycling-short baring, corset-wearing disciples, desperate to grasp on to some sense of celeb’ luxury without the burden of luxury prices. So where does all our unwanted, throw-away cheap clothes end up? The answer doesn’t lie in fobbing’ off all our shitty items to charity shops anymore because well, they’re just shitty. The cool kids that shop in thrift stores are searching for garm’s worthy of an Instagram post, not a faded graphic tee adorned with last months phrase of the week (RIP to all the Love Island T-shirt’s, but srsly, please stop buying these) and unfortunately the reality is, most of our £3 tee’s end up in swanning around in landfill. In fact, it is estimated that £140million worth of clothing goes into landfill each year. So exactly what burden is this forever changing, cheap fashion having on our World? And what can we do to help change this?

The other week I watched Stacy Dooley’s new documentary, where she investigates fashions dirty secrets and dives into just how much damage throw-away fashion is having on our planet. One of the most-shocking finds in the doc’ was that fashion is the second most-polluting industry in the World, alongside the oil, coal and automotive industry. Another staggering statistic from the show was that it could potentially take over 15,000 litres of water to grow the cotton need to make a single pair of jeans. An insane figure in which I could never fathom when I ‘throw’ on (I wish it was this easy to get a pair of jeans over this ass- and those cankles) my pair of £20 ASOS jeans. Toss in some breath-taking imagery of a dried up sea-bed in Kazakhstan due to water being diverted to fend for cotton fields, and visiting one of the World’s most polluted rivers in Indonesia which runs alongside some of the most in-demand clothing factories used by top High-Street brands, and it is clear to see the substantial impact our desire for low cost, seasonal fashion clothing is having on the environment. So what are the big brands doing about this? Well, unfortunately not a lot it seems. Many of the top names including Primark, ASOS and Topshop all refused to provide a comment on their commitments, or lack of, to help maintain a more sustainable fashion industry. And this is where our call to arms comes in, folks.

After this aggressive wake-up call to the impact my shopping habits are having on our planet, I’ve tried desperately to cut down my purchases on the sites mentioned in this post. I’ve turned off notifications to the apps and forced them into a small folder on my phone where they’re not constantly staring back at me (No, I haven’t completely deleted them yet- baby steps). I’ve revisited my wardrobe and picked out some of my favourite pieces I already own- some which still have the tags on them- and started wearing them more than once. I even posted an Instagram pic in the same outfit this week- BIG MOVE MY FRIENDS. And you know what? No one batted an eyelid.

Outfit Recycling. January 2018, November 2018.

But perhaps my favourite (definitely my favourite) conscious fashion change I have made so far is my switch to shopping in vintage stores. Dye my hair pink and call me a #hipster, for I have sinned against the high-street giants. I’ve always loved vintage-esque’ clothes: oversized printed shirts, floral dresses and baggy Levi’ jackets are all staples I have adopted into my wardrobe over the years but the popularity of #retro garms has seen the price for anything listed as “vintage” soar on sites like Depop and Ebay to levels my tight-pocketed self could not correspond with. This is where my new found love of kilo-sales comes in. Kilo sales are where you pay per the weight of your items, instead of each item holding a value. This is the holy grail of my fashion whore-ness. Low price, staple-making fashion which is sustainable and recyclable. UNHHHH. These take place in pop-ups around the country, and as more permanent stores. Also, don’t rule out charity shops to find some hidden gems. The great thing about clothing is that it can be washed *shock face* so buying something second hand really isn’t the end of the World. It’s time for a Fashion Revolution. Raid your parents, your grandparents (it’s okay, this is cool now), your siblings wardrobes. Swap and switch your clothes with your friends. Say au revoir to the shaming of wearing clothes more than once and welcome the feeling of falling in love with your clothes again. I’m not declaring that I’m going to stop shopping in high-street or online stores anymore because well, I’m a realist, and I’m a sucker for on-trend fashion and good deals. In fact, *confession* time, but whilst researching some flash sales for this blog post I was drawn in by NastyGal’s 50% off store-wide offer and ordered two dresses well, just because I liked them. I’m an addict in recovery guys, I haven’t made it over the hill yet. But next time you buy something off these sites or high-street stores, especially in the thrill of Black Friday season, buy it because you love it, and because you’re going to wear it until it falls apart, and not because it’s a quick fix outfit for a Saturday night, or just because it’s on sale. Those trends wear thin pretty fast.

Keep an eye out for my posts on my vintage finds coming soon.

Check out wrap.org.uk for more information on sustainable fashion.

It’s been a while. I’m sorry.

Hey there. It’s been a while. I’m sorry. Or am I? I started off this blog page with the intentions of living freely; posting whenever, whatever, because I no longer have to conform to deadlines and “do-good” views (or basically having no views at all) that you’re chained to when writing under a brand. I’ll post one blog a week, I told myself. “But it doesn’t matter if I don’t hit those targets”. So Why am I left wracked with guilt that I’ve been a bit shit and not updated this for 10 days?

I never wanted this to be a chore, something that I do for the sake of it and not because I actually have something to say. And it’s not. This guilt I’m feeling doesn’t stem from my blog. The blog is just a metaphor for the guilt towards my lack of lustre for well, anything lately. Anything productive that is.

The reality is, I’ve been busy. Busy drinking with my friends. Busy on a walking holiday with my family. Busy spending money I really shouldn’t be spending. Busy staring at my phone for 7 (yes, seven 😳) hours a day – thanks Apple Update for the screentime setting, really making me feel better about my life. I’ve been Browsing and Shopping and Posting and Liking and Reading and Sharing and doing anything really, anything but progressive movements towards building my future. This is the guilt. This is the procrastination. This is the blaming having to wait on everyone and anyone else to get back to me, instead of sitting at my desk and writing. Writing emails to potential clients. Writing blogs for potential features. Writing pitches for potential jobs. Writing measurements for potential fashion designs. I know what I need to do, but the last couple weeks I just haven’t been able to grasp it. The road up ahead seems such a long one that I’ve burned myself out by doing nothing at all. The irony of feeling fucking shattered by your lack of work, lack of hope and lack of faith in things finally happening, is exhausting.

Oh, but I have wrote something. I have wrote lists. And plans. Fuck yes, lots of them. I’ve wrote lists of plans and plans of lists. I know what I want, I’m just dumbfounded at how I get there. I’ve read about this “planning procrastination”. Writing lists and pinning endless Pinterest posts to make you think you’re being productive, when you’re in fact avoiding all your tasks with pointless projects which never get you any closer to where you want to be. Apparently this procrastination stems from stress and anxiety. Something I think a lot of young people attempting to uncover their golden gated path in life whilst dealing with social relationships and discovering new truths struggle with. I have so much angst about where I want to be in my life and where I am right now, that tackling the middle ground of actually getting there feels like the impossible task. I came across an article on LAPP the Brand a couple weeks ago where Victoria Secret model and LAPP Founder Leomie Anderson shared her fear of FOMOMGFear of missing out on my goals. And boy I felt that. We spend so much of our time comparing our lives to others. Their paths, their journeys and their destinations. We panic about where we want to be. Where we are not. We work ourselves up about how we are ever going to get there, that we forget to give ourselves a pat on the back for where we are now. Right where we’re supposed to be.

Sometimes I don’t want to write a blog post. Sometimes I don’t want to reply to that email. Sometimes I don’t want to hang out with my friends. Sometimes I don’t want to go to the gym. Sometimes I just want to be alone. Sometimes I want to watch a film with a glass of wine. Sometimes I want to go out and get drunk with my friends instead of put together that pitch for a client. Sometimes I want to eat a pizza instead of a salad. Sometimes I want to go for a walk and sometimes I want to lie in bed all day. And sometimes I want to do absolutely nothing. And that’s ok. Because Self-love doesn’t just consist of meditating and yoga and going to the gym and eating kale when you really want a burger. Self-love is about taking care of your mind. Self-love is being able to sit in your bed all day because you don’t feel like moving and not beat yourself up about it. Self-love is about knowing that you’re doing great, even when you don’t feel like it. Self-love is looking after number one. Whether that’s with an Indian takeaway, a spin class or a walk amongst the fresh air. You don’t owe anything to anyone but yourself. ❤️

Life as a Glamour Model: Accepting your career is over.

Life as a Glamour Model: Accepting your career is over.

Accepting your career is over is something you never want to have to face, not this early on in life anyway. All the long lusted ideals of what your life will be like, the high hopes that you’ve hung your dreams upon and the promised land in which you never got to travel disappear from your eyesight. It’s over. I am no longer a model.

It’s a tough pill to swallow. Especially when you are still so in love with your craft. Of course, everyone knows that there is a time limit to this career path, no one stays young forever they say. But the problem is, I still am. Whilst a lot of things in my life felt uncertain, my career was not one of them. I knew exactly what job I wanted, and I was as determined as anyone could be for success. I fell in love with modelling, fuck I fell hard. I loved every single moment of it. From the 5am Megabus’ to London and the castings in office cupboards, to the dodgy locations (yes FRONT mag) and even dodgier styling. The good always outweighed the bad when it came to this profession, always. I knew I was never the prettiest, the tallest, the skinniest, but I was adamant that I could make up for this through my boldness and fortitude in my love affair for this role. I faced off time and time again with rejection, yet each battle played a collective part in my story, building up a beautifully tragic puzzle of euphoric dreams and delusion.

Image by Harris Nukem

Being booked for a photoshoot was my Apollo 11. I was being paid to live out my childhood fantasy. I could never quite believe my luck. Each job was a journey, navigating at different stops. The first station would be hair and make-up, boy I loved this one. I would carefully soak in the craftsmanship, absorbing as much detail as I could on how to create the perfect smokey-eye. Each time without fail my eyes would water, their glazing blue-ness too sensitive for all the poking and prodding. I would sit there apologising, all red-eyed and irritated, clenching my fists praying that the tears wouldn’t fall and ruin the masterpiece which had adorned my face. The next stop was wardrobe, which usually consisted of various items of clothing spread out on the floor. “I hope I get that one” I’d think, waiting patiently for my look to be pieced together. I very rarely got “that one”, but I didn’t mind. I observed the stylist’s moves, their precision and eye for detail. Pinning and tucking, clipping and steaming. They minded every tag and seam with such an air of responsibility. The last stop put me in front of the camera. The holy grail. This is what it all came down too, this is what it was all for. Stepping on set always set off a wave of imbalance within me, a convulsion of hysteria and a dreaded feeling of don’t fuck it up. It was always in the back of my mind that this one shoot, this one job, could get me noticed and lead to my big break. That was both utterly terrifying and wholly spine-tingling. The photographer embeds their knowledge within you; chin up, back curved, towards the light, mouth a tad open. Their ability to execute an image in their mind to a living, breathing artwork in front of them is a demonstration of pure excellence. Anyone can pick up a camera, but only these select few are artists. Stepping off-set I would feel excited and drained. What if the pictures aren’t good enough. But as always, the good outweighed the bad, and I would leave the shoot feeling as if my dopamine levels had burst out of my brain. I want to feel this happy at work forever. I wish I hadn’t taken those days for granted.

Image by Matt Comer

Your life begins to build up around this path you’ve chosen. Your best friends become girls that you model with. Your travelling buddies become the make-up artists and stylists. Your agent becomes your second mother. Your drinking companions become the photographers. You meet up outside of work just because you want too. These people know all your secrets and your stories, your desires and your ambitions. You’ve shared life-changing experiences and travelled the World alongside them. You’ve created this whole family dynamic around you, and then one day, it’s just sort of, gone.

No one really warns you when your World is about to come crashing down. It doesn’t all happen at once. Much like a cliff repeatedly battered by the ocean, it silently erodes away piece by piece until one day you look up and nothing is there. This final stage of rejection is not one that I can accept so freely. I never fell out of love with modelling, but it fell out of love with me. The glamour industry evaporated and the other sector’s turned their back. You don’t fit the bill anymore, your job does not exist. I wish I had done more. I wish I had put myself out there more instead of spending so long feeling shy and uncertain of who I was. I wish I had spoken up and shared with my colleagues how much I really loved this job, this role as their fellow companion. The one thing left behind from my modelling days are my social media followers. But unfortunately this means I have to face trolling and negative comments about my looks, whilst no longer reaping any of the benefits that come with the job. I imagine it to be much like the career of a sportsman, through injury or old age (if you can call it that!) their time abruptly stops and they’re thrown back into the deep-end to try and forge a new path. Except when you’re a model, your passage has become blocked. Companies and brands don’t want to work with ex-glamour girls, and you’re once again running against the wind, trying to catch a break.

I’ve built up a plethora of knowledge through my experiences in this industry. I can, and have executed entire projects for brands from on-set shoot management, sourcing and casting, to client liaison, styling and production (you can check out some of my work here btw). But gaging respect from others as an ex-model is still something I struggle to find. The support network does not exist whilst the judgement unfortunately does. Life sometimes feels like an uphill battle and facing that your career is over as a 25 year-old, whilst feeling like you have so much left to give, is a hard wound to heal. I wrote this blog whilst tearing up, this really was my world. To many this may seem a bit silly, but starting from the bottom when you were so close to the top is a scary thing to face. I hope that I can be the exception and break away from the mould that us ex-models are forced into and forge a career behind the camera. But until then, I’ll continue to blog about my experiences through a new series I’ll be featuring called ‘THE MODEL DIARIES.’ Keep an eye out!