Written By: Derik Corso , Edited by: Jahleah Santiago

I got a last-minute invite to Runway 7 Fashion on Day 1 of NYFW, and I was absolutely pumped. It was my first-ever fashion show invite as press, so of course, I took the day off. I mean, how often do you get to dive into the madness of NYFW, right?

Photo Courtesy of Derik Corso

But, as it usually goes, things didn’t exactly play out like I imagined.

I got to the venue, buzzing with excitement, only to find myself staring down a super long media line. And I’m talking long. Think TSA at JFK the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Oh, and did I mention it was raining, and the temperature was a chilly 40 degrees? So much for the glamorous front-row NYFW moment I had been picturing. But hey, this is part of the experience, right?

After what felt like forever (but was probably only 30 minutes), I finally made it inside. They directed me to the front, near the control box. For a second, I thought, “Wait, did they mistake me for someone important?” Or maybe they were just trying to get people inside faster. Either way, I wasn’t complaining.

Courtesy of Derik Corso

Inside, the scene was chaos — photographers and media types chatting away, the music pumping in the background. But there was this undercurrent of intensity, like everyone was just waiting for the moment when things would go wild. And then… boom! The show was about to start. Suddenly, the press pit erupted. Cameras clicking, people shifting, and the energy in the room shifted from exciting to overwhelming in the best way possible. As a lifestyle blogger, I was definitely out of my element, but I was loving it. There was something about the organized chaos that felt electric.

And then the first model hit the runway. The bass was blasting, and I was soaking it all in until I heard shouting behind me. At first, I was confused, but then it clicked: the photographers in the back were pissed. The people in front were blocking their shots, and they were letting everyone know. That’s when I realized: I was witnessing the reality of the Press Pit. 

Courtesy of Derik Corso

As if the space wasn’t already packed, general admission was let in, and suddenly, the already-cramped room felt even smaller. It was like watching people try to cram into a packed subway car — except instead of rushing to work, everyone was elbowing for the perfect shot of the runway. The mix of perfume and sweat in the air was thick, and you could practically feel the tension rise as photographers guarded their space like it was sacred ground. I tried to make small talk with a few of them, promising not to get in their way, which actually helped me make a few new contacts in a part of the media world I wasn’t too familiar with.

At that point, I had two options: get frustrated or just go with the flow. So, I did what any reasonable person would do… I put on my “press hat” (metaphorically, of course) and started snapping photos.

Looking back, I can say the press pit? Definitely not my scene. But I have so much respect for the pros who do this regularly. It’s not for the faint of heart.

That said, I’m so glad I got to experience this side of NYFW. It wasn’t polished or glamorous, but it was real — and that made it all worth it. Next time, I’ll be watching from a proper seat with a bit more room to breathe. And who knows? Maybe one day I’ll even walk the runway myself. In this world, anything’s possible.