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It was 2006, we were thirteen years old, and after four years of excruciating pain and monthly visits to the orthodontist, it was time to get our braces off. It was our emancipation from puberty. My friends and I were finally able to pull off a decent smile. These were the days before Facebook and selfies, before Snapchat, before Instagram, before social media made us incredibly aware of our minds and bodies. It was the days when guys would ask you to prom via MSN Messenger and your mother would tell you to shut down your Windows XP at 10pm. The good old days. 

 Back then it was all about the “we.” About a group. A collective. I look back on that time and all I can remember is doing everything my friends did. I wore the same clothes, ate the same food, liked the same boys, had the same career goals. I don’t think I can remember having a  single interest that wasn’t shared by my group of friends. I guess it’s just part of adolescence; I felt more comfortable fitting in than standing out. That is, until Meryl Streep and Anne Hathaway strolled into my life, their Manolos click-clacking their way to my heart. 

The Devil Wears Prada tells the story of Andrea Sachs, an aspiring journalist from Northeastern University that ends up working for Miranda Priestly, the editor-in-chief of Runway, an important (fictional) fashion magazine. Played by Meryl Streep and inspired by Anna Wintour, Miranda Priestly embodies the bitchiest side of the fashion industry while facilitating an interesting discussion about the role of career ambition in female identity. Ultimately, Andrea decides to quit her job at Runway after a trip to Paris when she discovers the extent to which Miranda’s obsession with her job has destroyed her personal life and how close Andrea herself was to falling into the same trap.  

Around the time the film came out my interest in fashion had fully established itself after several summers with my grandma. Whenever she stayed with us she brought bags stuffed full of amazing clothes and would narrate the story of each piece. She introduced me to mascara, taught me to apply moisturizing cream upwards as opposed to downwards, and assured lipstick would always take me places. Thinking about The Devil Wears Prada as part of my identity brings me right back to those summers next to my grandmother and her suitcases, her make-up set, her mirror. I loved learning the power of the visual. I loved exploring my femininity through these objects I could touch and then decorate myself with. I loved being different from my friends!  

But now that I think about it, I think those summers, this film, will always be about connecting me to the memories of my mother. My mother is an ambitious woman. She was the CEO of a big company for twenty-one years. She was, in many ways, the Miranda Priestly of Lima. She wore elegant suits. She woke early in the morning and got home late at night. She was a mother, but she was also a business woman, leader, a mover, a shaker. She was a mother who brought up independent, mature, driven children. And for some time, all of this led her to believe she was a superwoman. But she wasn’t. A few years after my parent’s divorce, my mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. She went through six months of chemotherapy and lost all her hair. She gained twelve kilos and is still getting back in shape. She’s safe now, but her experience taught me an important lesson—everyone has a limit.  In The Devil Wears Prada we also see Miranda Priestly reckon with the limits of her power. She misses her twin’s recital, her second marriage fails. She might have her professional life in order but that seems to be about it.

Not long after my move to New York I bought a postcard in one of those stationary stores on 12th street. It featured a quote by Vandana Shiva, “You are not Atlas carrying the world on your shoulder.  It is good to remember that the planet is carrying you.” New York City, more than any place or anything in the world, opened me up to the power of vulnerability. In order to make real friends, be connected with real people, you have to admit to yourself, and the rest, that you are weak, flawed, only human.

Yet, I’m still fascinated by the power of the fashion industry. It’s the drive, the passion, the adrenaline. The Devil Wears Prada is the story of an ambitious young woman who lives for the thrill of a deadline, and to prove she can handle anything and everything that’s thrown at her. The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, I suppose, and I’ll likely become my mother. I want to build something relevant, to stir creative thinking, to make change. But I also want to raise a family, to put my children to bed, and teach them to wear lipstick and how to apply mascara. And we’ll definitely be watching The Devil Wears Prada once they’ve finished their homework.