The trailer for The Devil Wears Prada 2 popped up unexpectedly, and just like that—I was transported.

Not just to the movie.

But to me.

To fashion school, when I was learning how to speak in silhouettes and fabrics instead of full sentences. When deadlines were sacred, critique was sharp, and showing up unprepared simply wasn’t an option. When taste was trained, not assumed.

To the modeling agency, where I learned how to read a room in seconds. Where beauty was currency, timing was everything, and professionalism mattered more than feelings. Where you learned quickly that glamour is polished on the outside—and relentless underneath.

There were days I felt like Andy—wide-eyed, trying to keep up, learning the language of an industry that doesn’t slow down for anyone. And then there were days I felt like Emily—capable, exacting, already fluent in the rules, running on adrenaline and expectation.

Most days, if I’m honest, I was somewhere in-between. Learning fast. Working hard. Trying not to let anyone see how much it all mattered to me.

And then… there was my Miranda.

Not the movie version exactly—but close enough that watching the trailer made me laugh out loud. I’d read the book and watched the first movie when it came out in 2006, so getting the chance to work with a very real, very present version of her in 2007 felt almost surreal. Like life had blurred the line between fiction and timing.

My Miranda was demanding. Brilliant. Exacting. Always three steps ahead. She didn’t raise her voice—but you didn’t need her to. She expected excellence before you even realized excellence was required.

And here’s the part people don’t always say out loud:

I loved her.

Over five years of working alongside her, she taught me how to work—really work. How to anticipate instead of react. How to hold myself in rooms where I was the youngest, the quietest, and still expected to deliver. She sharpened my instincts, raised my standards, and—whether she meant to or not—prepared me for everything that came after.

We lost touch somewhere along the way—life does that—but I think about her more often than she probably knows. I hope she’s doing well. I hope she’s still brilliant and exacting and effortlessly intimidating in the way only she could be. She had a British accent that made every instruction sound final, and she always called me darling—a word that somehow managed to feel both affectionate and like a performance review.

To this day, I still hear it in my head sometimes.

Darling.

And I stand a little straighter.

Watching the trailer now, years later, it doesn’t feel intimidating. It feels nostalgic. Familiar. Almost comforting.

Because I survived that era.

And I grew because of it.

What once felt overwhelming now feels formative. What once demanded everything from me gave me a foundation I still stand on. And the woman watching the trailer today isn’t trying to prove herself anymore—she already did.

So yes, The Devil Wears Prada is back.

And so is the woman who learned how to deliver under pressure, take notes without flinching, and walk away with her standards intact.

Miranda taught me a lot.

But I didn’t need to become her.

I learned the standards.

I kept my softness.

And somewhere along the way, I stopped needing the approval—

because I carried the voice with me.

Darling.

Love,

Honey