Nobody likes to fail. But women take failure particularly hard—studies have shown that women are so averse to failure that they don't apply for jobs unless they feel 100 percent qualified. This hesitancy is understandable: When they do fail, women are judged more harshly than their male counterparts. Men, on the other hand, throw veritable failure parties; they're more likely to embrace "what doesn't kill you …" and plow ahead.

This week on ELLE.com, we've asked women to share their stories of failure. Not the kind of failure that led to some great business idea—just failure, plain and simple. We hope to shift the narrative about failure (it's ok! it happens!), or, at the very least, chip away at the idea that failure should be shameful or a secret. So here's to failing, loudly and proudly.

"Blend into the background" has become my mantra. I'm the girl all in black. And not zany Comme des Garçons black. Just...black. I keep my head down as I pass the street style photographers. "Just here to do my job, folks!" my Fashion Week look says.

This is not how it always was for me.

I never planned to pursue fashion. I had grown up acting professionally and after taking a break for college, thought I'd return to the entertainment industry in a more behind-the-scenes role. But an internship at a now-defunct juniors' clothing line set me on an unexpected path that led to Net-a-Porter, a place where even I, non-fashion-obsessive, dreamed about working. I may not have seen myself with a style-related career, but thanks especially to the years I spent around actresses, I had a deep love for clothes.

Overnight my reality changed—and was framed by beaded Versace gowns and neon Emilio Pucci furs. I began to feel the pressure to have the latest It bag and be seen at the hottest restaurant. This was back when people were still looking for ways to mention casually that they were brushing elbows with Leigh Lezark at Le Bain or the Electric Room last night as they rummaged through their Rocco duffels. Every other night I got drunk on free champagne from store openings and brand launches.

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I started arming myself in the signature staples of street style stars: the Yves Saint Laurent Arty ring, Proenza Schouler's PS11 tote. I spent an entire day calling Neiman Marcuses and Nordstroms to track down the open-toe Miu Miu booties with a criss-cross front. I became a sample sale beast, the kind who researched coverage, made schedules, waited it out on lines, devised methods for speed and success, and then preached about those methods to beleaguered friends. I had a collection of super-sleek black leggings and long tanks so I could strip down and try things on wherever I stood, beating out shoppers who had to wait for a spot in the fitting area. I once played up a knee injury and pouted up a storm when the security guards at an Alexander Wang sale said they were turning everyone else on the line away, starting with me—and managed to make that rule start with the person behind me.

I became a sample sale beast, the kind who devised methods for speed and success, and then preached about those methods to beleaguered friends.

It was at that Wang sale that I scored a runway dress for $80. It was tux-inspired with tails, but the neckline was off-the-shoulder and trimmed in lace. I bought a rag & bone varsity jacket to wear jauntily over my shoulders (my arms would never touch the inside of those sleeves), adding a streetwear wink to a glam-freak look, like a plaid shirt tucked into my iridescent green vinyl pencil skirt from Tibi. I got very excited to compare Moschino iPhone cases with my best gal pal.

An open-weave Missoni dress with a mod silhouette and hot-hued palette was just It, you know? It would have felt out of place anywhere but the closet of a multi-hyphenate girl whose multi-hyphenate friends invite her on last-minute Tulum jaunts where they broadcast pictures to their Instagram followers, #nofilter.

The rag and bone jacket and the tibi skirt. Courtesy of the author

I accumulated all of these clothes and not-so-patiently waited. My Fashion Week invites weren't coming. Social media exacerbated the situation; I knew exactly what the in-crowd was up to at every moment, and it never included me. So funny, Derek Blasberg, I think you forgot to mention me in that tweet. Why did no one email me about this brunch with Natalie Joos? I work at a luxury fashion company, I have luxury fashion clothes, so where is everyone?

That's when I realized: I was going about this all wrong. It was 2011. The It girls were bloggers, the Man Repellers, Fashion Toasts, and Blonde Salads. It seemed as though all they had to do was post pictures of their incredible outfits and voila, they were handed their very own capsule collections.

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This was also the era of White Girl Problems. It was cool to over-dramatize a fashion addiction with a hint of snark.

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I'd suggest consciously uncoupling yourself from those sneaker wedges. — BABE (@BabeTweets) March 31, 2014

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So my friend and I started our own blog that blended the true-blue fashion talk (think Style Bubble) with an over-the-top twist. The how-tos, outfit posts and odes to Acne jackets were real, but we wrote as fictional characters: two sisters who were raised wealthy and then cut-off. The character device would give us a cushion of industry anonymity, we figured, until we found our legs. But we also thought of the charade as an opportunity to get creative and take the conversation to extremes. Anyone could talk about why a Céline bag was a must-have; through satire, we could talk about why a Céline bag was worth begging your parents to advance you some of your trust fund. Our approach was half genuine gushing, half poking fun at how seriously fashion could take itself, and how inaccessible so much of it could feel.

We posted pictures of flashy silver Alexander Wang bags, flame-printed Margiela tees, metallic Marni Mary Janes. We went to every event we were invited to, and found ourselves among a whole community of beginner bloggers—the last resort of publicists when they couldn't get more important guests. But we didn't mind being part of this D-list cohort. We figured it still looked impressive that we were present for the unveiling of Henri Bendel's fall collection, right?

Our numbers barely budged.

Finally, my friend contributed a story to a well-known site: "Confessions from a Filthy Rich Park Avenue Childhood." She wrote that, too, under the alias she used for the blog, but the anecdotes themselves were true, thanks to her well-connected up-bringing. Our numbers shot up. We were linked to on tons of fashion news sites and gossip sites. The Daily Mail, thank you very much. Our posts were getting tons of comments. We were famous! The inbox for our blog flooded with interview requests and offers for reality TV shows.

Except that everyone hated us. Our sister act had been taken a little too seriously and the world thought we were disgusting, spoiled brats. We got death threats and emails from people insisting we killed ourselves. My friend was happy for the attention—even if most of it was vitriolic, it gave us a name.

The inbox for our blog flooded with interview requests and offers for reality TV shows. Except that everyone hated us.

I went along to meetings with networks and cable channels, agents and publicists. But this was all wrong. I had wanted to be respected. As ill-conceived as I now realize it was, I had planned for the blog to help me establish myself as a writer, and I had always assumed everyone would appreciate the satire. I didn't want to be some reviled and mocked flash-in-the-pan. I'd tried to become an It girl and instead took a wrong turn into Most Hated Villain. And for what? For all our emails from and meetings with major TV networks, we still couldn't get into Fashion Week. I shrank away from all of the offers and eventually, the blog, too.

I trudged along for a while simply because I didn't know what to do next. I still couldn't help but get a rush when I saw Sergio Rossi flatforms, and I failed to thrill to the cutouts of a Carven dress. Even if the in-crowd never knew my name, this business constituted a world I'd come to love.

I went freelance and flipped my priorities: Instead of trying to be seen, I'd focus on explaining to others why I loved what I was seeing. I had to scrimp and save for a while before making the leap. For some time this meant I couldn't even think of splurging on any of the things I was so thrilled to write about. I had to cold-pitch what felt like hundreds of websites, retailers, and brands, and I had to take lots of low-paying gigs to build my portfolio. But it was worth it: I finally feel as though I've found the real, sustainable reason that I want to be in this business at all.

The spell I fell under when I first entered the fashion world was something similar to the spell that fashion casts on anyone whose susceptible to its sway: It makes it all look easy. It-girldom isn't just handed to anyone who works in the industry. It takes a lot of work, luck, connections, and good genes—just as there's a whole mechanism behind the most effortless-appearing looks.

Nowadays, I'm not trying and I'm happy. I show up to fashion events dressed like a stagehand. I blend into the background, which just might be the best seat in the house from which to watch the show.

Courtney Iseman is a writer living in New York with her fiance and pug, Darby. You can follow her on Twitter @courtneyiseman.

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