I stood outside Zara’s flat, kit all packed and the exhaustion settling into my bones. As I turned to her, a wave of gratitude washed over me.
“Thanks for letting me crash,” I said, pulling her into a hug.
She squeezed me tightly. “Anytime. And Mya—don’t let this shake you. You belong in this industry.”
I wanted to believe her.
The train ride back to Manchester felt longer than usual. As the city’s familiar skyline came into view, I exhaled slowly, willing myself to let go of the sting of disappointment. I had given my all, yet it hadn’t been enough. The thought gnawed at me.
The moment I stepped through my front door, a blur of fur and excitement launched itself from Mikey’s arms straight into my legs. Billie. His tiny tail wagged furiously as he bounced on his paws, ecstatic at my return.
“We’ve missed you, love!” Mikey said with a smile.
I laughed, scooping Billie up. His small, warm body pressed against my chest, grounding me in a way nothing else could. I inhaled deeply—vanilla candles, fresh linen, the scent of home.
“I’ve missed you both too,” I said softly.
That evening, I sat surrounded by friends, their familiar voices wrapping around me like a safety net. I told them everything—the chaos backstage, the intensity of the key artist, the suffocating pressure, and the moment I felt like I had failed.
Kira leaned forward, her brows furrowing. “But you were there. And that means something. You made it into that room.”
I sat with that thought long after they left, Billie curled up beside me. I had been so focused on what went wrong that I forgot to acknowledge what had gone right. I had been chosen. Invited. Trusted.
I wasn’t a failure. I was just at the beginning of my journey.
Determined, I grabbed my notebook and flipped through some MYKITCO Face Charts and started to work on ideas. Some felt outdated, irrelevant. With a decisive stroke, using my 1.5s - MY SMALL SHADOW I got to work clearing space for something new. Face Charts have always been a form therapy, a way to get creative at home.
I dove into research—studying minimalism, refined techniques, the art of barely-there beauty. I revisited Renaissance portraits, dissecting the way light kissed the skin in those timeless paintings. If I had misunderstood the vision, I would learn until I understood it completely.
Then, I began reaching out—local photographers, models, stylists. Anyone who shared my hunger to create. My fingers hovered over the keyboard before I finally typed:
“Let’s build experience together.”
One message. Then another. And another.
The replies trickled in slowly, then picked up momentum. A photographer responded: “I love your work. Let’s test something new.”
A spark ignited in my chest. This wasn’t the end. It was a redirection.
I picked up my 0.2 - MY PRECISION CONCEALER, running my fingers over its bristles. It wasn’t just a tool—it was a weapon, a means of storytelling, a force of transformation.
And I wasn’t done telling my story yet.
