It started as a dare. My cousin Renée and I were bored, wandering the aisles of Walmart like we had all the time in the world and none of the money to match. I picked up these neon, leopard-print leggings—the kind you only see on mannequins during some clearance disaster—held them up like, “Can you imagine?”
Renée’s eyes lit up. “You should totally try them on. No, actually—wear them out here. Own it.”
I laughed. Nervously. I should’ve said no. I meant to say no. But something about the way she said it flipped a switch. Maybe I was tired of feeling like I had to shrink to make other people comfortable. Tired of tugging down shirts that never sat right. So I changed right there in the fitting room, yanked off the tags, stuffed my old jeans into the cart, and strutted into the men’s department like I belonged in every inch of those absurdly loud leggings.
I told myself it was a joke. A little performance. But inside, I felt taller. Louder. Like I had finally grabbed the volume knob on myself and cranked it up past the usual two.
I struck a pose by the dress shirts, tossing my hair with a laugh to make Renée giggle. Her phone was already out. “Girl, hold still. I’m getting this.”
I froze mid-sashay.
That’s when I noticed them. A woman near the registers did a double take. A teenager across the aisle stifled a laugh and elbowed her friend. Eyes were on me—and not in a good way. My throat tightened.
And then, from behind me, a voice cut through the noise: “That’s her. That’s the girl from earlier.”
My heart dropped.
I turned around slowly. A man in a Walmart vest was pointing at me while speaking into a walkie-talkie. Another employee, built like a linebacker, was heading our way.
“Ma’am,” he said, sternly. “We need to have a word.”
Panic surged. I looked at Renée, who had gone pale. “What did I do?”
“Someone reported you changed clothes in the fitting room and walked out without paying,” he said.
“What? No, I was going to pay!” My voice cracked. I reached into the cart and held up the jeans, the tagless leggings already hugging my legs like cling wrap. “The tags are right here. I just—it was a joke.”
“Please come with us,” he said, not budging.
My legs felt like lead as I followed them to the security room. Renée trailed behind, no longer filming. The hallway behind the electronics section felt colder than the freezer aisle. I could feel people watching, whispering, recording. My fifteen minutes of confidence had flipped into something bitter and humiliating.
Inside the tiny office, they asked me questions. Did I intend to steal the leggings? Why did I remove the tags? Why didn’t I go straight to checkout? I tried to explain. Tried to say it was a stupid moment, a joke that spiraled. But the store manager’s eyes didn’t soften.
“You know, we deal with a lot of theft,” she said. “But this? This is premeditated. You can’t just wear merchandise around and expect it not to look suspicious.”
I bit my lip so hard it hurt. I wanted to scream that I wasn’t a thief, that I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone. But all that came out was a choked whisper. “I was just trying to be bold. For once.”
They called my mom. That was the worst part.
I was nineteen, in community college, still living at home. When she showed up at the store, eyes stormy and jaw tight, I wanted to disappear into the floor. She didn’t say a word to me until we got in the car.
“Do you realize how serious this could have been?” she finally said, her voice sharp. “They could’ve pressed charges.”
“I didn’t steal anything,” I said quietly.
She sighed, staring straight ahead. “That’s not how it looks on security footage.”
For days after that, I stayed in my room, embarrassed to show my face anywhere. Renée tried texting me, apologizing for the dare, for encouraging it. I ignored her. My social media blew up with a blurry video of me in those leggings, doing that stupid pose. Captioned: “Walmart runway model thinks she’s cute…until security shows up.” It had 47,000 views by the weekend.
I almost deleted everything. But then, something strange happened.
A message popped up from a woman named Tasha Morales. She said she ran a plus-size fashion blog and wanted to talk.
“Saw your video,” she wrote. “The internet can be cruel. But girl, you OWNED those leggings. Ever thought of doing it for real?”
I stared at the message for a long time. My first instinct was to laugh it off. But something deep inside me stirred—the same something that had flipped when Renée said “own it.”
I messaged her back.
Two months later, I was standing in front of a white backdrop in a photo studio downtown, wearing a bold, asymmetrical dress Tasha had picked out. A makeup artist fluffed my hair while the photographer adjusted his lens.
“Okay, Margo,” he said, grinning. “Let’s see that strut. Give me the look.”
I struck a pose. Chin up, shoulders back, unapologetic.
The shoot went viral. Not for the outfit, but for the story Tasha published with it: “From Accused to Empowered: How One Walmart Incident Sparked a Confidence Movement.”
People messaged me. Not trolls—real people. Young girls, older women, folks who felt invisible in their skin. They said I made them feel seen. Brave. Like maybe it was okay to take up space after all.
Renée and I made up. She even came with me to New York Fashion Week, where I was invited to walk in a “real bodies” show sponsored by Tasha’s brand. The same girl who once panicked in a fitting room now stood center stage under spotlights.
Sometimes, when I’m alone, I still hear that voice from the store: “That’s her. That’s the girl from earlier.”
But now, it doesn’t make my heart drop.
Now, I smile.
Because yeah. That was me. And look how far I came.
You never know what a dare will do.
So tell me: when was the last time you really owned it?
If this story made you smile, share it. Maybe someone out there needs a little courage, too.
