As I was on a flight from JFK to London with my father — three days before the most significant opportunity of my modeling career — I fell seriously ill. It had begun as a light cough the day before, something my father and I assumed would pass. But by the time we landed, I was gasping for air, overwhelmed by sickness in a foreign country, with barely an emergency plan.
Still, I didn’t miss the shoot, which was for British Vogue. I couldn’t. Or at least, that’s how it felt. The shoot was described to my team and I as a special print issue championing the voices of disabled changemakers by then editor in chief, Edward Enninful. As a wheelchair user, this was unprecedented and cosmic. Even in sickness, I felt that I had to recover, that I could not miss that job for the life of me. After a harrowing 36 hours of uncertainty, I finally received treatment, rested, recovered just enough and made it through. I showed up for the opportunity, even while I was still physically healing. That’s what no one saw. What no one talks about. The lengths you go to when you’ve finally been given a chance you know you can’t afford to lose.
I showed up — and showed out — in the way that so many dedicated, passionate and visionary models do. And when the British Vogue issue was released, my team and I found out at the same time as everyone else, on a morning in late April 2023, that I landed the cover. It became a watershed moment for diversity and inclusion in fashion — arguably the most significant cover of my career to date. After more than half a decade of modeling while living with a significant physical disability, and being a Black transgender woman, that moment made every obstacle feel like it had led to something meaningful. The fight, the pain, the uncertainty — it all felt, finally, worth it.
Every step of my journey had been uphill: the slow and conditional progress in acceptance from industry professionals; the great discomfort I felt each time I was gawked at by casting directors; the constant rejection by designers and brands; the countless instances of being told I couldn’t attend a casting because there was no access for my motorized wheelchair. Achieving that cover made it all feel worthwhile. I celebrated myself that day, and long after. The gravity of that opportunity, both personal and professional, was enormous.
It was one of the greatest moments of my life. The industry celebrated too, to my delight, but only briefly. In the larger scheme of events, you might be surprised to know: despite the magnitude and cultural weight of that moment, it didn’t truly move the needle. Not for me. Not for disabled people. Not for other disabled models. Not for girls like me — Black, trans, visibly different in ways this industry still has difficulty embracing in consistent and meaningful ways.
And it raises a question I can’t stop asking: What does visibility really mean, when and if it still doesn’t lead to opportunity? Trans models are being chosen and platformed more than ever. But if you’re paying attention, the pattern is impossible to ignore: they are overwhelmingly white.
Disabled people exist in a world where our bodies are politicized and our voices hidden. Black trans women like me — already fighting for access, for respect, for care and for survival in an increasingly hostile world — are still being pushed to the margins, even as the fashion industry claims cultural progress and allyship.
In 2023, I crossed oceans, pushed through illness, survived — and still, after that historic cover, there were no new bookings. No real offers. No runway confirmations. Just silence. It was as if I and the disabled community had performed a miracle, and in a split second, the industry had already forgotten.
All the while, I watched my white trans peers thrive. Bookings, shows, accolades, campaigns. Of course, I don’t resent them, I’m very proud of them. But when brands say they support trans visibility and uplift “the dolls,” I find myself asking: Which ones? Because it often doesn’t feel like it includes me.
I’ve made monumental strides as a trans model with quadriplegic cerebral palsy. Over the course of my eight-year career, I’ve walked runways, spoken on TEDx stages, fronted beauty campaigns, starred in music videos and had my likeness sculpted for a major exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I’m incredibly grateful for it all. And yet, in New York City, I’ve walked the runway for just three brands — only one of which works with me consistently. I’ve yet to do runways in London, Milan or Paris.
I often attend events where I’m welcomed as what feels like a sort of live decoration — praised at parties, but passed over when it comes to meaningful opportunity. There’s a disheartening irony in being featured in an exhibit at the Met and still struggling to access consistent support and visibility as a working model in this industry.
Aariana Rose Philip
Max Wolf/Courtesy of Aariana Rose Philip
What I’ve experienced is not unique. And that’s exactly the problem. Fashion treats the inclusion of marginalized people as trend-based. There is a pattern of uplifting us for a fleeting moment —until the attention shifts, and the support then evaporates. A cover is not an entire career. A singular or few moments is not equity. A seat at the table doesn’t mean much if you’re hardly allowed to eat, much less speak.
But, whenever I feel alone, I’m reminded that I’m not. My communities — incredible disabled models and Black trans people — have been my saving grace. We affirm and uplift one another in a world that often tries to isolate and erase us.
In spite of my treatment by various systems and the people in them, along with the coinciding obstacles I have faced, my drive to be a continuously successful model has never died. Being devalued or rejected simply just makes me more persistent in my cause. I am more than a moment in fashion; my worth is more than a few singular moments where others critically consider me and the scope of my accomplishments. I have often learned to be creative and constructive in the face of experiences that could have easily destroyed me. I feel blessed by everything I’ve experienced, and I deeply believe in a better industry, and a better world. I look forward to when the industry catches up to the necessity of my communities, and to me.
Aariana Rose Philip is a fashion model, actress, media personality and visual artist based in the Bronx, New York City.
