Validation was like a drug.
Years later, bitterly lying in bed, Rarity would reflect on the notion, and how it had warped her, and how she’d allow it to warp her, and how she was nothing without the approval of others.
She was important. Had been important. Wasn’t important, but it felt like she was. It had felt like she was, like she was valued in ways she never dreamt she could be, even more than the fateful day years ago before Twilight’s birthday party.
Again, it was a small pond.
But when you become a big fish in a small pond, you feel like a shark, powerful and strong and good and great.
Of course, there’s always the inevitable realization, isn’t it?
That the second you make it to the top of this little pond, a fish now turned into a shark, you realize there are other sharks in this pond, and you start to care if they might be bigger than you.
When Rarity opened up her boutique in Canterlot, she became part of an unspoken circle of designers who’d, for lack of a better expression, ‘made it’.
There is a street in Canterlot City referred to as Fashion Rue.
Rather than a street filled with designer stores, Fashion Rue was where the fashion and designer publications made their homes, acting not just as the critics of the industry, but also, and most importantly, the showcasers.
If you were to venture inside the publications, they all have a public area you can wander through and admire the designer outfits these publications had selected. For many designers who came to Canterlot, or frankly who cared about the craft at all, to have your pieces showcased in this way was a goal. A tangible thing you could point at as evidence that not only were you good, but others were telling others that you were good.
But that was nothing, of course, compared to the window displays.
If the showings inside publications were a goal, the window displays were the dream.
A collaboration between all the publications, there were only seven of these windows, and each window would be solely and exclusively dedicated to one particular designer’s piece. At the height of the fashion movement in Canterlot, the displays circulated quickly as talent was endless and all abound, but if your piece made it to one such display, even for just a moment…
It was like a drug.
There really was no other word for it.
Every pony who walked through Fashion Rue would see it. Would know about you. Would more often than not decide to go see your actual store and buy more designs.
It didn’t matter whether you were good or not, why you were there at all, all that mattered is you were there and you were important and the closer you were to the front of the street, the more popular you were.
A year or so into her life in Canterlot, traveling back and forth between there and Ponyville, Rarity was once upon a time minding her own business making some hat for dearest Fancy Pants.
She was, admittedly, a little stressed about a variety of things, but none more so than her most recent design.
You remember the dress she’d done in Ponyville, don’t you? The one she’d added a cloak to?
Well, she’d decided to revamp it the week before. Redo and improve it, add more flourishes here and there, and keep the cape and rework it until it felt like it was something she liked rather than added for the sake of making others happy.
Having finished it the day before, she’d displayed it on her window and then sent a copy to publications so it could be added to the weekly published list of new designs.
Under the covers of her bed, years after the fact, Rarity would think of that day and wish she’d never sent in the dress.
Rarity didn’t expect it to hit big. Yes, she’d found success with it back home in Ponyville, but it was a very Ponyvillian design, so to speak, so she was more than content with her usual ten or so regulars coming in to see it and discuss it with her.
But then, Silverluck rushed into her boutique.
Breathless.
“Rarity!” she said in between hurried breaths. This was important, clearly. “Your design! Your dress! It’s in Fashion Rue!”
Rarity’s heart skipped a beat. “It is?”
This was not something entirely new. She was achieving enough success that several of her works had been displayed in publication’s buildings before.
But then Silverluck shook her head.
“No, no! Not inside the showrooms,” she said, and the following words were spoken as though it was the only thing that mattered in the whole wide world, “it’s featured in the window displays.”
Rarity felt faint. “The window displays?” she asked, for a second sure she must have heard wrong. But just in case she hadn’t, she asked, “Which one?”
Silver’s grin grew. “The first one.”
A dozen minutes later found Rarity at Fashion Rue, staring at not just her own design prominently displayed in a window, but at the crowd surrounding it.
And then they saw her.
And the questions started, comment after comment, asking how much it was, when would she make more, could she make a collection, what fabrics did she use, what fabrics could she add.
It was attention like she’d never had before, and just as noted before, she felt important. She felt great. It wasn’t even that her work was good, or the effects it had, or what it could do for others, it was that she, Rarity the Unicorn, was officially a recognized designer.
And it happened again a few weeks later with another dress, because now her name was out.
And then again. And again. And again. And again, and again, and again, every time bringing about love and admiration and feedback and attention to her designs and what she loved.
And then other ponies started attempting Ponyvillian-based designs, and her heart grew even more.
This was it. This was her use. She was inspiring others, and others were inspired by her.
For a while, it was great. For a while, for a blissful year or so, as she continued to rise and rise, she created like she’d never created before, inspired by the ponies reaching out, and inspired by the art of her fellow peers.
It was happiness, pure and undiluted, and her heart felt full.
She was a designer. She was, and she was so happy that she was.
But, and you’ll forgive me for repeating myself, this is something that bears repeating:
Again, it was a small pond.
And when you become a big fish in a small pond, you feel like a shark, powerful and strong and good and great.
And yet.
And yet, there’s always the inevitable realization, isn’t there?
That the second you make it to the top of this little pond, a fish now turned into a shark, you realize not just that other fish care that you became a shark and they didn't, but that there are other sharks in this pond. Other sharks who, just like the other fish, whether you want to or not, whether you mean to or not, these other sharks start to care as well that you might be bigger than them.
And even worse, and perhaps this is the worst part of it all, the thing that haunts you late into the night…
Your creative heart slowly starting to poison itself inside and out, you start to care if they might be bigger than you, too.