Three days of fashion weeking can truly wear the spirit thin. But this is not a complaint — it’s more of a gentle reminder. A reminder that engaging in anything creative is consuming. It demands more than presence. It demands mind, body and soul. That is why, every year, I show up not only as a witness but as a vessel, ready to absorb, to reflect and to carry the stories that these clothes, these spaces, these moments insist on telling. Day one of the 2025 South Africa Spring/Summer collections, held on 24 April at The Forum in Hyde Park, Johannesburg did more than whisper — it roared. And who else but Gert-Johan Coetzee to deliver such a thunderous opening with a collection titled The Arrival. It was not just fashion. It was an experience. It was theatre. It was soul-searching. As I walked through the doors after registering, I was immediately struck by a sense of intimacy, of invitation. The foyer was more than a waiting area — it was an exhibition. Stands displayed prints of Coetzee’s original sketches, delicate strokes of thought made tangible. If you were lucky, and I was, your fingers might have grazed not just a copy, but the original. Paper holding moments of doubt and brilliance alike. Then came the headphones. Wireless, sleek, resting gently on stands as if waiting for the right ears to find them. I placed a pair on and was transported. Visuals played — Coetzee, pacing, questioning, doubting. “Am I good enough?” he asked himself. And I felt my heart lean in. Imposter syndrome. The quiet echo chamber in so many of us. It doesn’t discriminate. Whether you’re an emerging designer, seasoned stylist or someone like me who translates fashion into feeling, these questions follow us. Seeing someone like Coetzee, with his accolades and accomplishments, admit to those fears was disarming in the most human of ways. “Even after all the accolades, I sometimes ask myself: Do I really belong here?” Coetzee wrote in a release. “But what I’ve come to learn is that heritage doesn’t wait for us to be confident. It moves through us, regardless. It’s already in us.” That line stayed with me. It echoed even as I mingled, sipping a cold non-alcoholic spritzer, chatting about fabrication and silhouettes with designers, stylists and a handful of influencers who still remember how to hold real conversation. And then came the show. The Arrival. Aptly named. What we saw was a return to self, a reawakening. The narrative unfolded visually — travellers returning to Earth not with answers, but with transformation. They left in search of something beyond and returned with the strength of the journey etched into the fabric of who they are. Isn’t that the story of all of us who dare to dream and create? The garments were the perfect storytelling medium. A collision of worlds — of space and soil, stars and roots. You could see it in the fabric choices, in the movement of the clothing. Some silhouettes felt futuristic, sculptural, almost alien in structure. Others whispered ancestral truths. And, somehow, they all belonged together. Harmonious in their differences. Like a choir made up of many dialects, singing the same song. Colours told their own tale. Blue, yellow, red, black and white — the colours danced across garments like a coded message, deciphered only by those who’ve dared to feel deeply. They weren’t just aesthetic choices; they were markers, signposts pointing us to ideas about identity, power, history and becoming. Africa and the cosmos stitched into one another. A dialogue, not a monologue. One of the standouts were the yellow bubble dresses — with intricate detailing, feather-looking from afar, echoing constellations. It was a reminder — we carry our stories not just on our backs but in our blood. But it wasn’t just the fashion. It was how the entire show was curated. The audience wasn’t just observing; we were part of it. We felt Coetzee’s vulnerability, his questions, his arrival. And in doing so, many of us arrived too. Arrived at our own understanding of worth, of heritage, of creation. This wasn’t just the beginning of Fashion Week. This was the beginning of something bigger. A call to return to the self, to trust that what runs in our blood — our heritage — will always show up for us, even when we doubt ourselves. And so, day one reminded me why I keep returning to these spaces year after year. It’s not just about garments and trends. It’s about the conversations — both spoken and unspoken. It’s about witnessing someone else’s journey and realising it’s not so different from your own. So, yes. Fashion week is exhausting. But it’s also exhilarating, revealing, and grounding all at once. And The Arrival did exactly what its title promised. It arrived. It landed. It touched down in the heart. And in doing so, it reminded us that we are already enough.