I used to say I was almost a model.

I never had a contract. Never walked a runway. Never got a single callback. But I had dreams taller than my 5’8″ frame, and a belief that maybe—just maybe—someone would see something in me before I had to beg them to.

It started small. People would stop me on the street. “Have you ever modeled?” they’d ask, like that question was some kind of invitation. It wasn’t. It was a tease. A whisper of possibility that curled around my ego and tightened like a scarf.

I took mirror selfies like they were headshots. I studied Tyra Banks like she was scripture. I watched YouTube tutorials on posing and smizing, imagining one day I’d be in front of a camera that wasn’t on a cracked iPhone.

But I never sent in the applications. Never walked into an agency. I hovered on the edge of the dream like someone afraid of cold water. Every time I was just about to try, I’d talk myself out of it: Not pretty enough. Not thin enough. Not unique enough. Not enough.

The world didn’t reject me.

I rejected myself first.

And maybe that was the real heartbreak—not the missed gigs or the ignored emails, but the fact that I never gave myself the chance. I built the stage, rehearsed the lines, then turned off the spotlight before I ever stepped into it.

Sometimes I still wonder what would’ve happened if I had taken that first step. If I’d dared to believe that being “almost” was just the beginning, not the whole story.

But now, I wear my “almost” like an old photo in my wallet. Not a regret. Just a version of me I visit from time to time. She’s still standing by the door, heels in hand, waiting for the courage I never quite found.