I Accidentally Fell Into Fashion đź‘—
From a Sociology degree to the white-carpeted world of Anya Hindmarch
If you’d told my teenage self that I’d end up working in fashion, I would have laughed. I didn’t see myself as stylish, thin, or glamorous enough to belong in that world. And yet, somehow, I stumbled right into the heart of it — handbags, photo prints, Fashion Week and all. This is the story of how it began.
The strange thing was, I never dreamt of working in fashion when I was younger. I graduated from university with a Sociology degree and always had a sense that I would be a teacher. But after being institutionalised for so long, I wanted a break. So I took some work experience with a friend’s sister, who had a fashion accessories start-up company. I enjoyed it far more than I expected and spent a year working there until I felt ready to move on to a larger business.
I never saw myself as a “fashion person” because I was never skinny. Fashion, I believed, loved skinny girls. But then I discovered the world of accessories — and a handbag always fits.
My mum was 5’6” and skinny. She loved clothes, and clothes loved her. I never thought much about it until much later, but she quietly gave my sisters and I a fashion education.
She adored the sales and had an eye for a bargain. We would take trips to London to shop in Harrods. It was always exhilarating driving into the city on the Hammersmith flyover, seeing the Lucozade advert and the Ark building glowing in the distance, knowing we were almost in Knightsbridge. The bright lights, the old-world architecture — I can still feel the excitement as I write.
I remember the blast of warm, perfumed air as we walked into Harrods, the way everything felt plush and expensive, even the escalators. Mum always walked with purpose, as if she belonged there. She knew her way around that maze of a store.
We would eat in the Way In restaurant — chocolate brownies with vanilla ice cream that felt impossibly indulgent.
Mum always said it was best to buy an outfit: get the shoes and a top to match the jeans or skirt. I once had a huge argument with her in Covent Garden about an orange vintage Adidas zip-up jacket. She hated it; I had to have it. We ended up yelling at each other on the street. I think I bought it and never wore it — her point proven. She probably couldn’t understand why something old and second-hand was so expensive.
It makes me smile now — that clash between her practicality and my teenage desire to be different. It was probably my first lesson in the tension between taste, value, and identity.
Still, I didn’t see myself working in fashion. I didn’t feel like I fit in that world. But temping for my friend’s sister changed something. I enjoyed handling pretty things. Beauty — and food — became forms of self-soothing long before I had the language for it.
My moon is in Taurus — a placement drawn to things that feel good, look good, and bring calm to the senses. Beauty isn’t superficial to us; it’s nourishment. It steadies the nervous system. It creates order in a chaotic world. Looking back, it explains a lot. My internal world was chaotic, and I found a sense of escapism handling beautiful things.
After a year there, I interviewed for a job with Anya Hindmarch, a well-known British handbag designer. I remember walking into the Battersea head office — an old stable block accessed through an arched gateway into a hidden courtyard. A green handbag hung above the doorway like a gleaming invitation.
Naturally, I fretted over what to wear. I was terrified of looking too casual, but equally desperate to avoid seeming too corporate. I settled on black trousers, a blazer, and a metallic gold hobo-shaped handbag with a Chanel-like chain. Metallics were all the rage back then, and I thought the bag was fabulous. I’d bought it from a street stall in New York.
Walking into the office, everything felt so chic. I felt like an imposter and an insider all at once — the awkward girl who didn’t consider herself “fashion” suddenly stepping into the heart of it. The carpet was white, the walls were white, the desks were white. Everything was orderly and serene. The women who worked there were stylish and magnetic. It felt like another world — one I secretly wanted to belong to. Intoxicating, just like the drive on the Hammersmith flyover.
I ended up working for Anya for nearly five years. I took a one-year hiatus when I fell in love and, after knowing him only three weeks, quit my job to travel around the world for eight months. But that’s another chapter entirely. I was young and impulsive (still am), and love made anything feel possible and I was convinced he was ‘the one.’
My first role was on the production team for the “Be A Bag,” a handbag you could personalise with your own photo. It was iconic — it even appeared on Sex and the City and became an international hit. This was before iPhones, so people posted their actual photographs to us. We’d scan them, the graphic guys would fit them to the template, and then reels of printed fabric would arrive for us to cut and send to the factory to be made into bags. There was something strangely intimate about handling strangers’ photos — babies, weddings, beloved pets, holidays — turning their memories into objects.
After my travel hiatus, I returned to work on the sales team and eventually worked in the showroom at London and New York Fashion Week. It was glamorous — the buzz of editors and buyers, all clipped voices and killer heels. I felt both exhilarated and slightly out of place.
But underneath it, I was starting to unravel. I was partying a lot, going through a breakup, gaining weight. I felt heavy inside. Everything looked glossy from the outside but felt dense and sad on the inside.
I applied to run the London Marathon, which at least gave me a focus — something to move toward when everything else felt stuck.
By the end of my time at Anya, new management had changed the atmosphere, and the family feeling I loved was fading. Despite the usual office politics and the odd fashion bitch, most people were genuinely kind. It was a special place — one I knew would be hard to replicate anywhere else.
Leaving that sense of belonging was daunting — but the quiet voice inside me was getting louder.
And eventually, that quiet voice became impossible to ignore — the one whispering that it was time to create something of my own.
The Chic Seeker 
One Response to “I Accidentally Fell Into Fashion đź‘—”
love this tara x