Lessons, p.11
Lessons, page 11
I had ignored my inner voice—the voice that was telling me the right thing to do—and when I didn’t listen, I made the wrong decision. I sometimes experience my own inner voice as a feeling. If I’m able to breathe quietly and calmly, then I know it’s serving me well. If my breathing is shallow or ragged, it’s a good indication something is wrong. When I decided to use the fifty reais my dad had given me to buy myself some new clothes, I thought I was being smart, but I knew it didn’t feel right. Not in my head, not in my body. The wisdom of this inner knowing feeling became even clearer ten years later, in 2005, when I was making the decision about whether I should continue working for Victoria’s Secret.
What can I say, I just love cleaning! In the models’ apartment in Tokyo, 1995.
I was nineteen when the company offered me a five-year modeling contract. When that offer came in, Vogue had just named me Model of the Year. I remember showing up for the ceremony in my hippie shirt, broken Birkenstocks, and usual oversize, ripped, comfy jeans. When Anna Wintour saw me, and asked if I had something to wear, I said, Yes, this, so right away she asked Grace Coddington, Vogue’s creative director, to find me a better outfit, though I’ll never forget those expressions of shock about what I was wearing. In those days I was a fashion model, and Victoria’s Secret was a catalog company. In 1999, there was a strong division between the two. Either you modeled clothes for Alexander McQueen, Versace, Dolce & Gabbana, and other high-end brands, or you worked commercially. There was no crossover. But when Victoria’s Secret told me the terms of the contract, I was so happy! Working with Victoria’s Secret would give me financial security for the first time in my life and a steady job for five years. I wouldn’t have to do one hundred shows a year anymore. No more flying to a new city every few days. No more worrying about job offers drying up or about my own financial future.
For the first few years, I felt comfortable modeling in lingerie, but as time went on, I felt less and less at ease being photographed walking the runway wearing just a bikini or a thong. Give me a tail, a cape, wings—please, anything to cover me up a little! As time passed, I felt more and more uncomfortable. But I loved the people I worked with there, especially my dear friend-turned-Cupid, Ed, who had hired me and who many years later set up Tom and me on a blind date.
By 2006, thanks to a contract extension, Victoria’s Secret and I had been together for seven years. My work with them still made up 80 percent of my annual income. The company told me they wanted to extend my contract for another two years.
Taking pics to show my family back home while working for three months in Tokyo, 1995.
To everyone around me, it was a very easy yes. Victoria’s Secret and I had had a long, trusting, mutually beneficial relationship. But I couldn’t decide whether to stay or go. When you work for a company the size of Victoria’s Secret, modeling is only part of your job description. There’s also a lot of promotion. Store openings and in-store appearances. Television and print commercials. Coast-to-coast travel. Backstage interviews. Photo shoots for the catalog as well as for the website. Whenever Victoria’s Secret introduced a new lingerie line, fragrance, or catalog with a special theme, it was my job to help promote it. If the company flew me to a remote beach in Virgin Gorda to model the latest swimwear line, a tabloid TV show would also be on hand to chronicle every step I took. I was certainly grateful for the opportunity and the financial security the company had given me, but I was at a different place in my life, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to continue working there. A few months later I still hadn’t made a final decision, and now it was time to make up my mind.
Every time I thought about my decision, my stomach got tight. If I renewed my contract, that meant I would keep on having to live my life on the company’s terms. There wasn’t anything I could do about their vision—Victoria’s Secret was a huge corporation, and the train there ran at full speed—and they couldn’t change my vision either, and the way I felt. That night before bed I prayed, God, please show me the way. Give me a clear sign. Should I leave? Should I stay? What should I do? Was leaving the right thing to do? Should I hold firm to my own beliefs? Was I sabotaging my own career? The next morning, I was no closer to a decision than I’d been the night before. I meditated for thirty minutes, asking myself the same questions over and over. Every time I did, my stomach felt tight.
Looking back, I think I was hoping that someone else would make my decision for me. That someone else, of course, was my inner voice—or my star, or my guardian angel, or God. Today I tell Benny and Vivi, When you pray, look for your star. Pray every night to your guardian angel. Maybe tomorrow you have a test in school—well, then, ask your guardian angel to protect you. If the angels are messengers of God, talk to them, or go straight to the top and talk to God! I remind Benny and Vivi that they can pray to the sky outside, or inside a church, or in their beds—anywhere, anytime.
I felt guided and it came to me in a flash. I crumpled up two small pieces of paper and placed them inside an empty teacup. On one paper I’d written the word yes—which meant I was staying. On the other I’d written the word no—which meant I was leaving. I closed my eyes and set an intention: whatever piece of paper I chose would be for my highest and best self and be the right decision. I reached in and picked up the one that read no. This was a confirmation.
No was the answer I unconsciously wanted to hear. It was also the answer my body wanted to hear and, I believe, had been trying to tell me for days. From that point on, I was at peace. I believed, trusted, and accepted that I’d made the right decision—or at least the best one for me. The tightness in my stomach vanished and didn’t return. That same morning I got on the phone with my agent and the team at Victoria’s Secret, and I thanked everyone repeatedly. I was incredibly grateful for all they had done for me during the past seven years. It had been a great opportunity and an amazing ride. But I wasn’t going to renew my contract.
Sometimes there’s no clear explanation why something feels right—but I believe you still need to follow what your inner voice is telling you. In the end, I was able to use the time and energy I’d spent working and traveling and devote it instead to what would become two of the greatest blessings in my life: my marriage and my children.
Saturday morning the right way! Three little angels in New York City, 2017. That’s Jack in the back, Benny in the middle, and Vivi up front.
The more we trust our intuition, the stronger it gets. When I first began meditating, I discovered that I could put aside all my stress and anxiety and find a level of peace I hadn’t known before. I still use meditation to get to that place, but I also use it to guide me and show me the way forward whenever I’m confused and need clarity. I find that if I’m patient and give the process enough time and space, the next step always becomes clear.
Which is why when anyone asks me for advice, the first thing I say is, Get quiet, find your inner voice, and listen to it as carefully as possible. Avoid taking things personally. People will say things to you—and about you—but try not to let their words affect you. Other people’s words have almost nothing to do with you and almost everything to do with them. Instead, ask yourself: What do I really want? And why? Be as clear as you can about your intentions.
Find your inner voice, listen to it, and keep refining the practice. The more you listen to it, the stronger it becomes. Stay true to your inner voice. It will remind you that you are never alone. And I promise it won’t ever steer you wrong.
My friend and yoga teacher Cris practicing chanting and meditation in Costa Rica, 2008.
5
Where Your Attention Goes Is What Grows
At the end of every year, on New Year’s Eve, I make two lists that together sum up what I’ve done over the past twelve months. The first one spells out all the things that made me proud—learning a new skill, polishing up an old talent, being a good and present parent, mastering a sport or an activity that once scared me, launching a social or an environmental project, or taking the positive results of one I started earlier to the next step. The second list is devoted to areas that still need improvement. That night, I like sitting in stillness for an hour. I meditate on those two lists. Where in my life have I done well? In what areas do I think I came up short, and why? Are the places where I gave my fullest attention—my marriage, my children, my work, my nutritional and exercise regimen, my spiritual practice—in balance, or am I overdoing one while letting another slide? I also use my New Year’s Eve meditation to set intentions and goals for the next year. Do I want to give up sugar (again) for a month? Is there something I haven’t done that I’ve always wanted to do? What scares me (which to my mind means I need to try it)? How can I become a better person, a better friend, a better mother, better at everything I do?
Practicing yoga in Costa Rica, 2008.
If it sounds like I’m tracking myself or keeping score, well, I guess I am. My New Year’s Eve list-making is a form of self-analysis and a good way for me to measure my own development. I can feel good about whatever small victories I’ve achieved while reminding myself of the areas where I can still do better. It isn’t a time for self-criticism. If I make that mistake, I reframe it as an opportunity for learning something new. It’s also not a time to shower myself with praise. The big questions I always ask myself are: How well or how poorly did I use the time I was given this past year? Have I taken full advantage of the hours, days, weeks, and months that I was given? Have I prioritized what is most important to me, and have I given my best, and most present attention?
The lesson: Where your attention goes is what grows has always shown itself to be true for me. This is a very important lesson especially in a time when we’re saturated with more information than ever before. It can take a superhuman effort to slice through the physical clutter and mental fog around us, in order to focus our attention on the things, and goals, that benefit us most and help us to grow. But the effort is worth it.
What we need to understand is that where we place our attention is within our control. From experience I know how easy it can be to allow other people to define us or limit our potential. If I had totally believed the bullies in my school or the people in the fashion industry who criticized my appearance, my self-doubt would have paralyzed me. Instead I focused my attention even harder on what I wanted to accomplish. Should we really allow other people to tell us who we are, where we’re going, and what we’re capable of accomplishing? Those people had no idea that the qualities that they were making fun of were the very ones that made it possible for me to be in this field where I have been successful for twenty-three years!
We all need to be careful with where our attention goes—and our attention always begins with our thoughts. Once we believe something is true, it becomes closer to coming true. If we have a poor opinion of ourselves, every encounter we have will be shaded by that belief. If we come into situations with confidence, our positive self-esteem will impact everyone around us.
Baby me.
As a girl, I realized I had no control over my growing body. What was I going to do, exactly—saw my legs in half to make myself shorter? But I could turn something I didn’t like into something I did like. Becoming a great volleyball player made being tall an asset. Plus I could become a good student and focus on where I could have a positive influence. But this mind-set meant that I had to overcome my own fears and insecurities—and this was especially true in my early days of modeling. The industry could be cruel in its treatment of girls. To some designers, models were hardly even human. We were hangers. I remember getting a job at age fifteen as a fitting model, where I had to try out the potential looks for a show. I had to stand naked, except for my underwear, covering myself the best I could with my arms folded over my breasts while someone went to get me the outfits. Sometimes they would take forever, leaving me there shivering. No one thought to bring me a robe or thought about whether I might feel self-conscious or vulnerable or cold. Since I was new to modeling and didn’t know any better, I told myself that this was just how things were.
My first big break came in London. It was 1998. I was eighteen years old. Since the mid-1990s the trend in fashion had been known as “heroin chic”—lots of skinny, waifish, mostly androgynous-looking girls. I had nothing in common with that look—I was healthy and tanned and athletic, and I had big boobs. I was living in a models’ apartment in central London where most of the other girls either smoked, drank, took drugs, or had piercings and tattoos. After three weeks and forty-three castings, most of the people booking the shows barely looked at me. They weren’t interested in any of the modeling work I’d done in Brazil, not even a photo shoot where the hair and makeup artists had done their best to make me look boyish and cool. The heroin-chic fad was probably a response to all the healthy, athletic models who dominated modeling in the early ’90s. I didn’t know that the pendulum was about to swing the other way and that I was in a good situation to take advantage of it.
One day the agency sent me to a casting for the British designer Alexander McQueen’s upcoming summer show. Lee, as his friends called him, had been chief designer at Givenchy before starting his own label, and even then he was considered one of the most creative, innovative designers of his time, known for a dramatic and unusual approach to fashion. When I got there, I joined hundreds, maybe even thousands, of other girls in a line stretching out the door and around the block. One by one, we made our way into a long hallway that led to a room where Lee sat on a couch. He had me put on a pair of super-high heels and a tight fishtail skirt and then had me walk for him. When I was done, he said, “Thank you,” and nothing else. I wasn’t sure how it had gone—and a few days later, when my agency called with the news I’d made the cut, I couldn’t believe it.
The night of the show, I remember being struck by the fact that no one had called me in for a fitting. Maybe they’d figured out my dimensions from the fishtail skirt I had worn at the casting? I had done a few smaller shows in New York, but this was my first big international show, and I had no idea how it worked. That night I arrived at the venue feeling like I had crazy butterflies in my stomach. I sat in a chair as the hairstylist pulled back all my hair and fitted me with a black wig, and the makeup artist glued long black feathers on my eyelashes. I was pretty sure that at some point someone was going to come and ask me to try on the clothes. At that time—I was barely eighteen—my English was still limited. I could say “good morning” and “good afternoon” and “hi, how are you?” and “I’m fine!” and make out a few things people were saying to me, but most of the time I just nodded and smiled a lot, since the last thing I wanted was to look dumb.
Before showtime, it was chaos backstage, with a lot of stress and yelling. Soon it was time for all the girls, including me, to change into our outfits. We were given less than a minute to dress. I had three looks that night, three outfits—a stringy silver thing like a bathing suit but with chains hanging off it, a dress, and the fishtail skirt. None of them had been fitted on me. I went out wearing the first two without any problems, though it was definitely fewer clothes than I’d ever worn on any runway. Now it was time for the fishtail skirt.
Backstage, during a runway show, it’s always rush, rush, rush. The rush to change clothes. The rush to touch up hair and makeup. The rush to line up and get back out on the runway. Someone pushed the fishtail skirt at me and I changed into it. My legs could barely maneuver in the skirt, and the height of the heels made it nearly impossible to walk. I was still waiting for my top, and in my broken English I finally asked someone where it was. “There is no top,” came the answer.
I began to cry. I had no idea what to do. Mostly, I thought about how disappointed and embarrassed my parents would be. I tried to hold back my tears, but they just kept coming down, and the black feathers glued to my lashes began coming unstuck. I could hear the heavy crunching industrial beat coming from the runway. I thought about leaving, about running away. There was no way in the world I was going out there without a top. But if I left, I knew I’d probably never be given another opportunity. I’d be called unprofessional—that is, if casting agents bothered to call me anything at all. But in the end, it was my body, nobody else’s.
As soon as Val, the makeup artist, saw the situation, she said she would paint a top on me using white makeup—which she proceeded to do. It did look like a top, too. Val told me how beautiful it looked and said that the runway was so dark no one would know I wasn’t wearing a sheer white shirt. If Val hadn’t shown up just then, I seriously doubt I could have walked the runway. I remember thinking that if anyone took photos of me, at least my parents wouldn’t be able to recognize me in my black wig.
The Alexander McQueen show, 1998.
At one point I noticed that one girl, then another, no, wait, all the girls, were coming backstage with their hair soaking wet. It took me a few seconds to grasp what was going on. I could already barely move in my tight fishtail skirt and high heels. Now I was about to go out there in a painted-on top and it was also raining?
That was probably the night I started to dissociate, to begin thinking of my public self as her and she. Because the girl who finally appeared on the runway wasn’t anyone familiar to me. A few minutes earlier I’d been crying so hard my tears were washing off my makeup. I was a good girl. I was a tomboy. I was someone whose big breasts had embarrassed her since she’d hit puberty. I was a girl gripped by the fear that my family would feel so embarrassed they would never talk to me again. I was terrified. (Thank God that the internet wasn’t that popular in Horizontina back then—my parents would have ordered me to come back home.)
