What It’s Like to Walk in a Runway Show

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On the day I made my runway debut, I spent the morning pacing back and forth in my apartment, practicing my walk. My call time for the Eckhaus Latta fall 2026 show at New York Fashion Week was in a couple of hours, and I was experiencing the off-putting dissonance that arises when you intently focus on something that normally requires no conscious effort—like breathing or, in this case, perambulating. It’s the stuff of nightmares.

I readily agreed to put myself in this position. I have never aspired to model-dom, but when the stylist Thistle Brown texted me to ask if I wanted to walk in the Eckhaus show, I couldn’t say yes fast enough. Eckhaus Latta is a perennial NYFW highlight because Mike Eckhaus and Zoe Latta make clothes for a gritty, weird, real version of New York (and LA, where Latta is based). Their fashion fantasy transports you to ketamine-fueled downtown gallery dinners, where you might find the pair’s peekaboo sweaters and artfully dyed jeans.

One of Eckhaus Latta’s innovations has been to put its community in the spotlight. Non-models are fairly common on the runways these days, but since Eckhaus Latta’s first show in 2012, the designers have been presenting their work on a mix of pros and amateurs, including musicians like Dev Hynes, chefs like Danny Bowien, skaters like Alex Olson, and critics like Natasha Stagg.

I quickly realized I needed expert help. “We always prioritize our models having a life and a story,” Latta had told me. But a life and a story don’t necessarily mean you’ll actually be good at the job. So I called up the supermodel Alton Mason, who did an Eckhaus show in the tender early moments of his career.

“Walk like you’re about to go get that money,” Mason told me. “Walk like you are chosen to do this. You don’t have to overthink it.” As I did laps around my apartment, I repeated the mantra in my head: Go get that money.

It was only minutes from showtime that I started feeling butterflies. I was dressed in my look—a pair of gray jeans with a matching polo and wool cardigan—and had my hair and makeup done. The venue, 15 Orient, a gallery in Tribeca, is a maze of small rooms, and the seats were set up in tight rows winding dizzyingly through the space.

I was no longer thinking about getting that money; I was fretting about taking a wrong turn, and trying to remember what casting director Rachel Chandler—who pioneered the “nodel” (non-model) look as the cofounder of indie modeling agency Midland—told me about approaching the all-important photographer pit: “Keep your chin down and your eyes up, or you’ll be looking at the ground on Vogue Runway.” Gulp.

I was look number four, so at the first ethereal notes of the James K soundtrack, there wasn’t much time to spiral. When it was my turn, a woman wearing a headset held me at the threshold between backstage and the bright catwalk. “Go,” she whispered.

After all the pregame hype and advice and anxiety, I actually didn’t think much of anything while I was out there. I hit my turns, kept my chin down, and tried my best not to make eye contact with any of my colleagues in the fashion press. I walked like I always do, but with an adrenaline-induced swing in my step. Before I could even remember Mason’s advice, I was safely backstage. After all that, I was out there for maybe 90 exhilarating seconds. Would I ever get to do it again? Who knows. Did I wish the runway had been three times as long? Absolutely.