Seeing the True You

I wrote this last Wednesday in an Uber heading uptown to Betty’s life celebration at Bergdorf Goodman. It was a crisp, cool, bright December morning—a day that invited celebration. Yet, beneath the joy of honoring her, I felt the ache of missing her. Betty was my friend, my mentor, the woman who saw through all the armor I wore and urged me to share my truest self with the world.

When someone changes your life so profoundly, how can you not feel their absence deeply? I’ve always believed that people live on as long as we hold them in our hearts, as long as we remember them. And I truly do believe that. Even so, it doesn’t fill the void of their physical presence—the warmth of a hug, the familiar scent, the cadence of their laughter, the way their eyes light up when they smile. I miss all of that about Betty.

I miss her smallness, which somehow held a vast power. No matter how frail she appeared, when she raised her eyebrows and spoke in her distinct blend of Midwestern and Northeastern tones, she could command any room and captivate any person. Betty carried a gravitas—not just of a woman her age but of a woman of her era.

For years, I believed Betty didn’t like me when I was younger. She didn’t pay me much attention, and I told her so years later. Her reply? “You didn’t need me to like you.” That simple, profound statement lingered with me. And she was right—I didn’t need her to like me. Not back then. Not as I was. The truth is, I didn’t even like that version of me.

But the version she helped me see? I love that version—and so did she. Betty loved me.

For over 40 years, Betty stood with undressed women in the fitting rooms of Bergdorf Goodman. She didn’t just see bodies—tall or short, thin or curvy. She saw people. She saw *them*. That’s why they kept coming back. She offered advice, shared stories, even swapped recipes. And with me, she looked past the layers I used to hide who I wasn’t and saw exactly who I could be. Then she showed me.

It’s so rare to be truly seen by someone, and rarer still to be loved for all they see. Betty, I miss you. I treasure every moment I spent with you, and I will honor you in everything I create.

I hope each of you has someone in your life—a teacher, a mentor, a parent, or a friend—who inspires you and truly sees you. It is a gift that can transform your life.

There have been many others who have guided me on this journey, but Betty was there from the start. She saw my first designs and urged me to share them with the world. I can’t count the hours I spent in her office, receiving advice and critiques—not about my clothes, but about my art. In the later years, we sat together as equals, artist to artist.

Betty was a writer, too, and she would have loved knowing I’ve been writing to you all. On my last visits with her, she told me I’d write a book one day. She urged me to share everything I created—my poems, my art, the beauty inside me that I had once worked so hard to hide.

She believed we could make the world more beautiful by sharing what we carried within. And she was right.

xx,
Christina