From answering an Instagram casting call to walking the runway for Marc Jacobs, Lameka Fox’s rise in fashion has been nothing short of remarkable. But behind the campaigns for some of the industry’s most celebrated houses lies a story that extends far beyond modeling. Raised by her grandparents and shaped by an upbringing rooted in discipline, resilience, and creativity, Fox has built a career that spans fashion, entrepreneurship, music, and advocacy.

In this conversation, she reflects on manifestation, personal growth, the lessons she learned long before fashion, and the purpose that continues to guide everything she builds.

You went from answering an Instagram casting call to walking the Marc Jacobs Resort runway seemingly overnight. What do you remember most vividly about that transition, and how did it change your sense of what was possible for your life?

What I remember most is feeling like my life had finally caught up to something I had already believed was possible. Being signed and walking for Marc Jacobs felt less like a beginning and more like a moment when my physical reality aligned with something that had existed in my imagination for years.

Fashion was my obsession growing up. I studied it, followed it and dreamed about it. So when it suddenly became my reality, it felt like my first visceral experience with manifestation. It taught me that the things we spend our lives imagining aren’t always fantasies; sometimes they’re glimpses of a future we’re moving toward.

That experience fundamentally changed my understanding of what was possible. Once you’ve seen something that felt impossible become real, it’s hard to put limits on your life after that.

Before fashion, your world revolved around horses and training. How has your equestrian background shaped the discipline, confidence and focus you bring to modeling and entrepreneurship today?

I’ve lived in New York for more than a decade now, but growing up around horses shaped almost every part of who I am. There’s a level of discipline that comes with caring for animals that doesn’t depend on how you feel that day. The horses still need to be fed. The stalls still need to be cleaned. The hay still needs to be unloaded. That teaches you responsibility in a very tangible way, and I’m lucky to have learned that at such an early age.

Horses also taught me confidence. They’re incredibly intuitive animals, and they respond to your energy. When you’re riding, you have to be aligned in your body and your mind. If you’re uncertain, they feel it. If you’re grounded, they trust you. Looking back, I think that combination of work ethic, resilience, and self-trust became the foundation for everything I’ve done since. Modeling and entrepreneurship require it. Most things worth building do.

You’ve worked with iconic fashion houses like Burberry, Miu Miu, Valentino, and Jacquemus. Was there a particular runway or campaign experience that felt especially transformative or personal for you?

One moment that will always stay with me was shooting my first major Valentino campaign with Maripol. We shot around SoHo and at Indochine, and there was something about it that felt deeply New York. At the time, I was 17 years old, living alone in Manhattan and trying to make sense of this new life I had stepped into.

After the campaign came out, I walked from my apartment uptown to the Valentino store just to see it in person. I remember standing there and seeing my face in the window of a fashion house I had admired for years. It was as much about the campaign as it was the realization that the life I had dreamed about as a kid was actually happening. That walk through the city is still one of the clearest memories I have from that time.

Your beauty brand, Vernell, focuses on luxury skincare solutions for people on the go. What gap in the market were you hoping to fill, and how much of the brand reflects your own lifestyle and routines?

Vernell is deeply personal. It’s named after my grandmother’s middle name, and our first product, How Sweet It Is, takes its name from something my grandfather used to say.

My grandparents raised me, and after losing my grandmother in 2013 and my grandfather in 2019, I found myself searching for ways to hold on to the things they gave me. During the pandemic, while dealing with severe cystic acne, I began learning about skin health and barrier repair out of necessity. I no longer had access to the prescriptions I had relied on, and for the first time I had the space to explore a more holistic approach.

What began as a personal journey eventually became a business, but more importantly, it became a way to transform grief into something meaningful. In many ways, Vernell is an act of preservation. It preserves my grandparents’ memory, the rituals they taught me, and a slower, more intentional approach to caring for ourselves that often feels lost today.

The gap I wanted to fill wasn’t simply another skincare product. I wanted to create luxury that felt practical: products that support the skin barrier, travel easily, simplify routines and fit into real life.

I’ve never believed that self-care should require 12 steps or an hour of your day, especially for people navigating anxiety, depression, demanding careers, travel, parenthood or simply the realities of everyday life. To me, luxury isn’t excess. Luxury is thoughtful design, quality ingredients, and creating something that genuinely improves a person’s experience of daily life.

As we continue to launch new products, I think people will begin to see that Vernell isn’t just about skincare. It’s about creating beautiful, intentional solutions that make caring for yourself feel accessible, meaningful, and sustainable.

You’ve spoken openly about personal growth and creative expression. How do you protect your sense of self in industries that often encourage constant performance and reinvention?

I think one of the most important things you can do is spend less time online. I wrote in my journal once that every age we’ve ever been still exists somewhere inside us. The things we loved as children, the interests we were naturally drawn to and the parts of ourselves that existed before anyone was watching are often the source of our most authentic creativity.

I think people underestimate the value of boredom—of being disconnected long enough to hear your own thoughts. When you’re constantly consuming everyone else’s opinions, successes, aesthetics and ideas, it becomes harder to recognize your own.

My community and my upbringing ground me. Where I come from continues to inspire me. And I’ve learned that if you’re genuinely living, learning, traveling, failing and growing, you don’t have to force reinvention. Life will reinvent you on its own. Your job is simply to stay open to it.

Music clearly runs deep in your family history through your grandfather’s Motown legacy. What inspired you to start DJing and producing music, and how does music give you a different creative outlet than fashion?

One of my earliest memories is dancing on my grandfather’s speakers while he played “Disco Lady” by Johnnie Taylor. Whenever I tell my family this, they’re amazed because I couldn’t have been more than three or four years old, but I remember it vividly.

Music was everywhere in our home. It was part of how we celebrated, how we connected and expressed ourselves.

As I got older, I became fascinated with instruments. Our neighbors had a bluegrass band, and I spent hours learning about the mandolin, guitar, and cello. I wouldn’t call myself a musician by any means, but the curiosity never left me.

What I love about music is how instinctive it feels. Fashion is creative, but it’s often collaborative and external. Music feels more internal, more primal. It allows me to create from a place that’s harder to access elsewhere.

At its best, music creates community. It brings people together emotionally, regardless of where they come from. That’s something I’ve always been drawn to.

As someone advocating for conversations around trauma, mental health and resource disparities in minority communities, what changes do you hope to see both within the fashion industry and beyond it?

I would like to see us move beyond awareness and toward infrastructure. We talk about mental health more openly than ever before, but acknowledgment isn’t the same thing as support.

Fashion is an industry filled with young people who are often navigating enormous life changes, financial uncertainty, public scrutiny and, in some cases, significant trauma. Whether someone thrives or struggles can depend heavily on the quality of the support system around them.

I’ve been fortunate to work with people who genuinely cared about my well-being, but not everyone has that experience. When support is absent, people are often left to navigate incredibly difficult circumstances alone.

I think that’s one reason we continue to see issues like burnout, exploitation and substance abuse. People don’t just need awareness campaigns. They need resources, access, mentorship and systems designed to help them succeed.

The same is true outside of fashion. Real change happens when support becomes structural rather than optional. If we’re serious about helping people heal, we have to build environments that make healing possible.

Looking ahead, when people think about Lameka Fox years from now, what do you hope they recognize first: the model, the entrepreneur, the creative, the activist — or something else entirely?

I hope they recognize a life that was lived with purpose. Modeling opened doors for me, entrepreneurship gave me a way to build, and advocacy gave me a reason to use my voice. Creativity has connected all of those things together.

I don’t necessarily want to be remembered for one title over another. I hope the work speaks collectively.

Looking back, the common thread in everything I’ve done has been preservation. Vernell was born from preserving my grandparents’ memory and the wisdom they passed down to me. My advocacy work came from wanting to create protections I didn’t have access to myself. Even creatively, I’m often interested in honoring stories, traditions and experiences that might otherwise be forgotten.

More than anything, I hope people feel that I left things better than I found them. That I used whatever platform, resources or opportunities I had to create something meaningful—not only for myself, but for the people who come after me.

I will continue building, advocating and creating for as long as I’m able because that’s what I know in my heart I’m meant to do. If that work helps clear a path for someone else to dream bigger, feel safer or build something of their own, then I’ll feel like I’ve spent my time well.

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