ISSUE XXIX
LETTER FROM THE
EDI T OR
I write with my mirror.
Eyes may be the window to the soul, but I believe writing has always been what lays us bare. It is a reflection of our identities, experiences, and heritage. It is a reflection of the images surrounding us, a lens to our perceived reality. My first creative story was one about my hair. I didn’t realize it then but it was a mirror to my identity at the time, a love letter to my ancestors, a sharing of my humanity.
Storytelling is arguably the most authentic reflection of us. A form of narrative transportation of the truest kind. It is something we all indulge in, from the daily anecdotes we share over Sunday brunch, the advice sessions we seek, to recounting the latest TV show we binged. Stories are what make our conditions human. We continue to convene around this modernage campfire.
When I held my first ever MUSE issue in my hands at the age of fifteen, thanks to my sister’s box of memoirs, I engrossed myself in those 64 pages. They created an intricate tapestry of a community sharing
their version of themselves, the world around them, and how the two fit in. I saw the diversity of human experience. I saw a space where narratives were amplified that had historically been silenced. And in the authenticity and rawness of these lived experiences, I saw glimpses of myself. I longed for this ability to illuminate my own truths, in hopes of better understanding myself.
Or,
At the beginning of creating Issue XXIX, it was this naivety that I reflected back on. To capture one’s complexity and foster connections through such vulnerability is a beautiful thing. You hold in your hands the mirrors to many souls. These stories draw parts of us that we may have been conditioned to keep hidden, perhaps from the world or ourselves. Or they simply reflect what has been there all along. This issue is a looking glass into the world we perceive, the relationships we hold dear, or even the clothes we wear. The creatives involved in the making of this issue were bold to look into themselves and let us peer in too. I can wholeheartedly disclose that it is a beautiful sight, and to that I say, thank you.
At Issue XXIX, it was this naivety that back on. To capture one’s complexity and foster connections through is a in your hands the mirrors These stories draw parts of us that we may have been conditioned perhaps from the they simply reflect what has been along. This issue is a looking we perceive, the relationships we hold dear, or even the wear. creatives involved in the issue were bold to look into themselves and let us peer in too. I can wholeheartedly disclose that it is a beautiful sight, and to them I say, thank you.
Within these pages of shared reflections, I hope that you find a form of clarity and connection. In each story shared, there is a piece of us all.
Yours
Creatively, Rhea Matharu Editor In Chief, 2024-2025
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Creative Director: Olivia Parent
Photography: Sheana Tchebotaryov
Videography: Emily Furham
MUA: Khush Sagar Model: Emma Wright
GRWM to D fend
Katarina Bojic
eWhen I open my Tiktok feed, I am nearly certain the first sound to fill my ears is, “Get ready with me to…” accompanied by a visual of someone pulling their hair back with a headband and rubbing the latest viral skincare product onto their face.
I have been familiar with “Get ready with me” (GRWM) style content longer than the short-form content that comes to my mind. The concept has traveled through various social media, from YouTube to TikTok. Whether it was Zoella or Bethany Mota, when I came home from school, my YouTube subscriptions were flooded with 10-minute videos of people documenting themselves preparing for their day.
What is our fascination with filming ourselves and watching others prepare for school, run errands, or go out for dinner?
I think we are reluctant to admit we are nosier than we lead on…
GRWM videos are a glimpse into someone's life; a diary and a documentation of who this person is. People film a video telling their audience (often the oblivion of the internet) what they are getting up to in the next couple of hours, and how they feel at
the moment about their upcoming plans. Often when someone goes viral for a GRWM, we stay for their personality and what they are talking about. The most mundane GRWM can get millions of views and land someone internet fame. People can seek out communities in different countries and find common ground by getting ready to go to class or out to the bar. We seek out relatable people on the internet, and a GRWM feels organic. Furthermore, GRWMs are easy to film. They break down the barrier for people to talk on the internet. All you need is a phone, plans, and the products you regularly use. With this video concept, it feels natural to film because the person has organic talking material to discuss; it could be anything from the products they are using to the places they are heading.
I look back at the old GRWMs I have filmed and instead of feeling cringed out, I feel warm and nostalgic. I have a video documenting the jitters I felt before going out with new roommates, who I didn’t know at that time would be my friends for life. It’s special to me that I have a sliver of that memory and unfiltered proof of how I felt that day. And isn’t that what a GRWM is?
It took me a while to feel comfortable talking about my experience as a bisexual trans man. I write for the brave, fierce, and unapologetic individuals. Those who know that a world in which they hide who they are is not one they want to
In a world of polarizing perspectives, bisexual and trans people often face the brunt of LGBTQ+ discrimination and erasure. Situated between both these experiences, I have certainly felt that if I wanted to fit in anywhere, I had to keep secrets. Throughout high school and first year, being trans was my biggest secret. Recently, I realized how much that hurt. All I wanted was to express my sexual nature wholeheartedly, but instead, I would bite my tongue. I would tell myself that I couldn’t do what the cisgender people could do. Ironically enough, I would see other trans people expressing themselves unapologetically, surrounded by queer friends and community. It all seemed relatively safe and fun for them. In my mind it never seemed fair, so I would turn away from trans and cis people alike.
These experiences impressed upon me that perhaps I was creating my own separation. After a while, my urgency for self-love overpowered my strong feelings of internalized transphobia and biphobia. While I won’t pretend that being bi and trans isn’t sometimes difficult, I believe that a safe community allows us to transcend
the limits of society, and find a more open way of being.
I propose that bisexual and transgender people make more art together and remember the historical significance of our alliance. In the late 20th century when the transgender political movement was gaining headway, bisexual people were the first to support the trans community. I’m not sure if it is because both these communities have felt othered in LGBTQ+ spaces, or if there are other secret links. Studies have shown that the most common sexuality for transgender people to have is bisexual. I also know that many bisexual people are really attracted to the gender ambiguity of trans and non-binary people. Aside from these similarities, bi and trans people have also made a lot of culturally progressive art together. In the 90’s there was a bi-trans magazine called Anything That Moves. It’s an inside joke about bisexuals, that they will f*ck anything that moves. I love it when queer people reclaim their experiences with humour and joy. I can’t wait to discover what is waiting on the other side of radical self-acceptance.
Bi Trans Alliance
Misha Avdeyev
Cute, Little, Women in STEM
The field of scientific research is a vast and evolving space. Some subjects may seem like they have nothing in common, but they all boil down to an experimental acquisition of knowledge, giving them an entry into the scientific universe. In the face of these differences, it’s challenging to compare the value of different types of scientific research. Nevertheless, prices are placed on each field, and when comparing the appraisal of scientific contributions, it’s impossible to ignore the gender variable.
The gender gap in lab coats is frequently debated within the small scope of each field. Discussions about women in engineering being overlooked by their male co-workers, female doctors being second-guessed, or physics classes comprising only a handful of women, are rightfully brought to our awareness. When we more rarely look at science as a whole, through a macroscopic lens, gender continues to play a role. Uncoincidentally, female-dominated areas of scientific research, such as psychology, nursing, and health sciences, are undervalued, underpaid, and often victims of scrutiny. In male-dominated areas of science, like engineering, things such as funding, paid internships, and awards are more readily available. Science is not a prestige contest, but if it were, women-dominated fields
would be losing.
The most detectable difference between male and female-dominated areas of STEM is the compensation students receive for their work. Being in psychological research myself, many of my peers would agree that paid undergraduate work is hard to come by. Due to its scarcity, the few opportunities for paid summer jobs in psychology are highly competitive and only give a handful of students the opportunity to gain experience and payment simultaneously. Despite the lack of compensation, it is necessary to have extensive volunteer research experience for a slight shot at getting into graduate school. In nursing, another female-dominated field, unpaid work makes up about half of the degree. Working in a clinical setting alongside paid nurses is a great way to learn, but at its core is gruelling unpaid work.
While stretching myself thin to gain as much research experience as possible, I’ve often questioned my capabilities and intelligence. Having the drive to make meaningful research contributions but lacking the means and support to do so is a reminder that although science isn’t a boys club, it sure pays like one.
Alexandra Culbert
oldenough.
The air feels lighter, and time seems to slow down. Simple moments stretch, like lazy afternoons where there’s no need to hurry. Familiar movements take over—chasing shadows, enjoying sweet treats, feeling the breeze against our skin. There’s no rush, no destination, just a gentle defiance against the ticking of time. In this space, we’re free. Maybe age is just something we forget for a while, or maybe we’ve always held onto the things that make us feel truly alive.
Creative Director: Nadisha Gautam
Creative Assistant: Jade Robinson
Photography: Jade Robinson
Videography: Hadleigh Green
MUA: Anika Tasneem
Models: Camden Szumlanski, Zoë Mickelson & Kailey Curran
Am Not a Concept
The manic pixie dream girl is my worst enemy. On the surface, she embodies the archetype of a free-spirited young woman who refuses the confines of traditional social norms. Her eccentric personality quirks and whimsical disposition pique the interest of the average male protagonist, who learns to appreciate the small things and change his cynical outlook on life because of her. The manic pixie dream girl exists as a projection of what the male lead is missing in his life, serving as an instrument to inspire him and fill his emotional void without any development of her own. What I hate most about the manic pixie dream girl is how she is a flat, one-dimensional representation of the qualities I associate with myself. Beneath her offbeat appearances and uncharacteristically bubbly energy, this trope idealizes the most superficial traits of neurodivergence in women — and I am autistic.
As someone on the spectrum, I often misread social cues and respond to serious situations with unwarranted optimism. When my energy is low, I immerse myself in niche hobbies to the point that it impedes my everyday responsibilities. I constantly listen to music because the world is too overstimulating without headphones as a buffer. I enjoy dressing in fun patterns and colours, and I spontaneously cut my hair — but then cry afterward because I don’t respond well to change. Without my mask, I communicate impulsively, setting aside exaggerated expressions to compensate for my blunt honesty.
I see pieces of myself reflected on screen in characters from some of the most beloved films of our generation. When we allude to the manic pixie dream girl, Clementine Kruczynski from Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004) is a classic example. While her brightly coloured hair and carefree
demeanour initially attract a cautious and introverted Joel, Clementine’s underlying impulsive nature and emotional turbulence ultimately lead to her self-destruction. To escape the pain of her past relationship, Clementine permanently erases Joel from her memory.
Similarly, the titular character from Ruby Sparks (2012) serves as a typical manic pixie reference. She is written into existence by lonely novelist Calvin as his ideal ditzy, artistic, and effervescently happy romantic partner. However, every action is unknowingly controlled by Calvin’s typewriter, and Ruby cannot exercise free will despite her efforts to grow and become her own person. Their relationship is destined to fail because Ruby is treated as an object rather than an individual. Regardless of their deeply layered flaws and independence from the male leads in their stories, this archetype is inappropriately assigned to Clementine and Ruby based on their most superficial features.
The characters we attribute as manic pixie dream girls seem to look and act like me, but their feelings and perspectives are rarely given a voice. We must reflect on why we associate the manic pixie dream girl with any female film character exhibiting traits of neurodiversity. This label inherently centralizes the male characters in her life and how they perceive her, condemning the Clementines and Rubys of the world from their autonomy. The nuance of their characters and the traumas underpinning their behaviour are overlooked for the sake of fitting the manic pixie dream girl rhetoric.
In parallel, there is an increasingly prevalent online conversation surrounding neurodivergence and autism to the point where they are nearly fetishized. The desire for a partner who is “slightly acoustic”, or
“The manic pixie dream girl experience is to be exploited for the benefit of someone who gives nothing in return.”
has “a touch of the ‘tism” is merely repackaging the manic pixie dream girl for a new generation. It can be challenging to navigate, especially when the “exciting, mysterious, quirky fantasy” is also projected onto us by men in real life. We are treated as constant uplifting distractions for them to escape their monotonous realities, or enlightening stepping stones in their journey of self-improvement. The manic pixie dream girl experience is to be exploited for the benefit of someone who gives nothing in return.
Unfortunately, neurodiversity in young adult women is poorly portrayed in film and media because it is often misunderstood in our lives. From a young age, we are conditioned to fit in and mask our cognitive differences, presenting only our most palatable qualities to society. When neurodevelopmental disorder inevitably emerges as emotional meltdowns, debilitating burnout, selfneglect, and obsessive behaviours, the romanticized image of the manic pixie dream girl fades away, leaving behind feelings of resentment.
Neurodivergent women are unfairly idealized, then villainized when we fail to fit the script written for us. As we continue to seek our place in the world, we deserve to express our complex selves without being reduced to objects perceived solely through the male gaze. Clementine Kruczynski is the antithesis of the manic pixie dream girl, as she articulates best: “I’m not a concept … I’m just a f*cked-up girl who is looking for my own peace of mind; Don’t assign me yours.”
Julia Liu
I watched The Buccaneers expecting a storyline similar to Bridgerton, where strong-willed women are propelled by societal pressures to marry. What I found captivating about The Buccaneers was their ability to push beyond the surface themes and tackle complex storylines that were relevant and prevalent in the plot. In just the eight episodes of the show’s first season, they were able to authentically tackle challenging and thought-provoking subjects, including gender expectations, power imbalances, and healing.
In Season 1 Episode 5 of The Buccaneers, a discussion unfolds between two main characters, Lizzy Elmsworth and Guy Thwarte, over spoonfuls of marshmallows on a kitchen floor. While eating, Lizzy praised that nothing felt better than a full stomach. Guy challenged that statement, asking, ‘What about love?’ Lizzy outlined the dissonance between his experience as a man, consistently being full, and the female experience. Women were taught to constantly be hungry, that they must be as small as possible to be noticed; disappear to be seen. Lizzy was relieved to stop searching for a husband, and Guy believed it to be a good decision if it made her happy. Lizzy then realized her discontent
as she fought back her tears. She recalled a painful encounter with a man whom she regretted trusting, who made her fearful and ashamed. As Guy listened, he made a powerful observation: Lizzy never said she did something shameful, but rather, she was conditioned to feel ashamed. Guys’ insight helped her see the truth of the situation she was reflecting on, where she was in a room with a man who asked her to do something that made her feel ashamed, exposed, and embarrassed. She had been carrying her feelings like an anchor, pulling her into isolation, away from the people she’s held closest.
Like many of us who have been scolded and made to feel ashamed, Lizzy’s story exemplifies how shame can be unfairly placed on us. By confiding in Guy, she learned that the shame she felt did not belong to her, it was his to bear. Guy’s tenderness affirmed that she needn’t feel humiliated. Any form of non-consensual encounters can make us feel violated, naive, and powerless. For anyone who has ever been made to feel ashamed by the acts of another, their actions do not diminish you. Reclaiming your power starts with acknowledging that the shame belongs to them, not to you.
What is it that draws us to eavesdrop? To always be in the know.
NOSEY NELLIES
Creative Director: Olivia Bermingham
Photography: Ariana Ganga Mawji
Videography: Hadleigh Green
MUA: Natassia Lee
Models: Olivia Dragon, Sasha
Van Leeuwen & Celine Mpora
Have you ever been so intrigued by what your neighbours are doing that you start doing ridiculous things?
What frivolous and embarrassing lengths will we go to - just be a Nosey Nelly?
Give Me My Shirt Back!
way. Living under the same roof, our lives were consumed by fighting over who gets to wear what.
Getting ready for school, it didn’t matter if it was Grade 1 or Grade 11, our house vibrated with shouting about who gets to wear what. The obvious solution was, if we both wanted to wear the same sweater, just buy the sweater twice. Well, this would be entirely wasteful because we would never want to wear the same thing at the same time. Additionally, we realized that instead of buying the same sweater twice, we could use that money to buy a different piece to fight over. We were stuck in a cycle.
Sister
Now, my sister lives 4,560.5 kilometers away from me. Getting ready in the morning is eerily quiet. I’ve never wished that I could fight over a sweater with anyone more in my life, because at least that meant she was next to me. I can no longer creep into her room while she’s asleep and help myself to a pair of jeans. I lost my chance to stop her walking out of the house with a shirt that she promised I could wear instead. One day in 2020, I watched her walk out of the door, and now I only see her over the holidays- along with a suitcase filled with her own clothes I have no way of giving back to her. Now if I really want something, she lets me keep it.
My sister is 2 ½ years older than me. We grew up close in age; three grades isn’t much in the grand scheme of things. However, when we were under the age of 18, three grades felt like the world of a difference. We rarely saw eye to eye. She had a passion for skiing, I had one for theatre. But when it came to fashion, we had room for collaboration.
As the younger sister, I made myself welcome to her closet and to “borrow” her clothes. But, I didn’t feel bad for her because she retaliated exactly the same
When I look back, I understand we weren’t just fighting over clothes. We were practicing to share, forgive, and compromise. The traits I attribute to being a good person, I learned from my sister.
What used to seem like a waste of money, buying the same shirt twice is necessary as we can no longer borrow from each other whenever we please. If anything, we feel a bit closer matching and wearing the same sneakers, even though it feels like we are an entire world away from each other.
Katarina Bojic
Reclaiming Your Inner Femininity
Beth Hood
What exactly is coquette? Think flirtatious, hyper-feminine, sweet – not in a misogynistic sort of way, but in a way where you can reclaim your inner femininity.
Coquette encompasses so much more than just putting bows on everything; your hair, headphones, bags… even a beer bottle, you name it. Coquette is a sense of being; a sense of expressing one’s inner femininity through outer expression. The aesthetic provides a safe place for women to express their individuality, steering away from expectations of what it means to exist as a woman in a modern society. It is taking a stand against the notion that traditional femininity is weak, showcasing how you can be a powerhouse of success and confidence while simultaneously embracing the feminine aspects of yourself.
Coquette is in the music you were afraid to play out loud, but recited word for word alone in the shower. In your guilty pleasure movies and DIY projects you put aside because there were “more important things you could be doing”. In the outfits you never wore because “no one would ever take you seriously.”
It’s finally being able to be yourself in a society where women are looked down on for being too feminine, while
simultaneously being told you aren’t feminine enough. A society where I used to hate the colour pink, because liking anything “girly” made you weak. Where I was afraid to wear any sort of dress if it wasn’t a special occasion, because I was trying too hard. Growing up in a constant place of fear that if I embraced my own femininity, I would be nothing more than a stereotype and preconceived notion of what it means to be a woman. Yet, being a woman encompasses so much more than how you choose to dress. It means being strong, intelligent, confident, and having the freedom to express yourself in ways that construct such values.
Coquette allows you to reclaim what was stolen from you by societal expectations of women and notions of traditional femininity. It’s the embracement of your inner femininity, free of the judgment of others, but most importantly, free of self inflicted judgment.
And hey, if this hyperfemininity isn’t your thing? That’s okay, too. But let’s come to a mutual understanding that coquette is so much more than just the next fashion frenzy.
It is in the reclaiming of all the things that make you feel beautiful, because you finally feel like you.
Spike my hair, so you can’t squeeze me. Keep on walking, so you can’t tease me. Call me from the sidewalk, tell me how to dress.
You'd look prettier if you’d smile, I hear it from the rest.
BITE
Creative Director: Gemma Falasconi
Photography: Harvey Tolentino Doniego
Videography: Emily Fuhrman
MUA: Natassia Lee
Model: Olivia Sit
Overindulgence means loving something so much that you hurt yourself by having it. Since ninth grade health class and its PSA videos, I associate overindulgence with alcohol. Fatigue, headaches, depression, and nausea are symptoms of that kind of overindulgence. I thought only red wine could give me a hangover, but I recently discovered something else, and no, it’s not drugs. It’s Charles Bukowski.
Essential Bukowski: Poetry is my favourite collection. His writing is overwhelmingly wonderful - he captures the pain of human existence and dumbs it down into realworld interaction. He writes bitingly as a man isolated in loneliness and watching everyone around him live normally, as if from a fishbowl. Except that fishbowl is a messy apartment in Manhattan, with clothes and crumpled paper strewn across the floor. Empty beer bottles cover every surface. Bukowski was a raging alcoholic, which exacerbated his severe depression. Therein lies the problem.
it’s the waiting,” and these lines stab you with the knowledge that everything is meaningless, and every day is one step closer to the end. However, it’s difficult to appreciate Bukowski’s poetry unless you have already felt that way before, at least once.
I’ve learned not to overindulge in Charles. I love his work so much; it makes me feel and contemplate, and in every poem filled with anger is a glimpse of lost happiness. I’ve reread “As The Sparrow” a million times, just so I can visit its final line: “I hated you when it would have taken less courage to love.”
MyFavourite Drunk Poet
Bukowski’s issues are so intense that they’re contagious - you can catch a hangover or an episode through the page. To be able to read and love his poetry, you must enter the mind of a person who believes he is leading a miserable life, complete with mind-numbing jobs, screaming lovers, and financial ruin. His collection is complete with lines like “it’s not death that’s the problem,
TRIGGER WARNING: ARTICLE CONTAINS DISCUSSIONS OF MENTAL ILLNESS AND SUBSTANCE ABUSE, WHICH MAY BE A TRIGGER FOR SOME READERS.
The occasional dip into Bukowski’s poetry motivates you to live your life oppositely. However, if you jump into the deep end and read it cover to cover, Bukowski will worm his way off the page and into your heart and turn you into a morbid pessimist. If you read his work, taste it sparingly. Despite his hateful facade, Bukowski appreciated beauty, or he wouldn’t have been able to write a collection grieving it. He just also appreciated being violently drunk at noon.
Sydney Toby
Armita Dabirzadeh
This summer, I saw Olivia Dean perform at Osheaga. I had been a fan of her music for a while, but nothing could have prepared me for this experience. Standing in the middle of the crowd, I wasn’t expecting anything more than the usual festival buzz and the familiar comfort of the songs I love. When Dean took the stage, like an ethereal goddess, her voice hit me right in the heart. Her voice—which I had heard countless times through my headphones—hit me with a new intensity. She has a sound that warms my soul and grounds you into her world. She was standing there with her hair blowing in the wind, making me feel like I have known her my whole life.
Then came her song “The Hardest Part” with its soft, melancholic notes. She began singing, “You say I’m different now / Like that’s so strange / But I was only eighteen,
You should’ve known that I was always gonna change.” It felt as though she had lived my life and that made me feel seen. I hadn’t noticed it at the time, but looking back now, I can feel the subtle resentment he held towards me. We met at eighteen, dated until twenty, and all the while, he wished I was still the girl he found at eighteen. I wasn’t her anymore and I didn’t want to be. At that moment, I felt the weight of that truth. I had changed, and he didn’t accept it.
When she sang her song, “Be My Own Boyfriend,” it struck me how much I had grown —how I’d learned to comfort myself
and feel whole again. It revealed how I am complete just as I am. I’ve learned how to hold myself close- to be what I need. Right there, standing in the middle of the crowd I cried. With tears streaming down my face, I realized I wasn’t waiting for someone else to make me whole—I’d already done that on my own. I had become the person I needed – the person I was before him. I had reclaimed the part of myself that I thought I had lost, I found peace in my own company. Loving yourself requires vulnerability, but it is also the most freeing feeling in the world. I had surrendered to that vulnerability, realizing that being whole on your own is a powerful kind of love.
be my own boyfriend
Beauty in the Broken
Tia Olesen
To be a human is to hurt and heal, gather wounds and grow. For me, the most valuable element of art is its ability to capture the essence of the human experience. My mind latches onto the pieces that encapsulate this idea because these evoke the feeling of being seen. In a recent internet search for this feeling, I
found an image of a floral porcelain plate broken into quarters and reassembled using barbed wire, a piece created by artist Glen Martin Taylor. I had never seen anything like it. The vivid imagery intrigued me, leading me on a deep dive into his artwork and those similar to it.
In this search, I learned about Kintsugi, a 15th-century Japanese art that mends broken objects with gold or silver-dusted lacquer. Kintsugi, translating to “golden joinery,” traditionally fixes precious pieces by embellishing the repair points. Instead of discarding it or hiding the cracks, it highlights them, displaying the object’s history and increasing its value. The symbolism of this art has resonated globally as the restored artwork openly presents its imperfections as something not to be hidden, but embraced, just like how one should view themselves. These flaws and fractures from your past making you ‘you’ are some of the most valuable parts of your identity. They convey that you aren’t perfect and come with a past. You are flawed which makes you real.
Adaptations of this art form have developed over time, with artists Tomomi Kamoshita and Glen Martin Taylor drawing inspiration from Kintsugi’s traditional techniques and tenor in their works. Kamoshita’s designs incorporate broken beach glass or porcelain pieces as she creates Kintsugi by assembling mismatched materials together or into pre-existing broken ceramics using golden lacquer. Her work gives these pieces a second life, demonstrating sustainability while deepening the pottery’s story. Taylor’s approach is very different: employing rough, unconventional materials such as metalwork, hinges, nails, and utensils to reconnect fragile items. Rather than prioritizing practicality, he conveys a different side of healing, one with an ugliness. In interviews, Taylor expresses that the human experience is chaotic and confusing, not perfect or pretty. He channels his deep wounds into his work in an attempt for him and others to find solace in his pieces and heal.
The idea of healing is a complex, innate part of the human experience. Our bodies are designed to heal, but this process is never linear. Living entails collecting traumas, big or small, that become etched into who you are and how you navigate living. It is a common experience, to go
through traumatic situations and come out the other end feeling like you are broken beyond repair. One of the biggest daily hurdles I face with my anxiety is my fear of vulnerability. Unable to relinquish my hold on the past, I relive the hardest experiences that have shaped who I am from morning to night. Being too afraid of letting others see those parts of myself, the ugly that is attached to my past that I wish could be severed, is an isolating feeling. Vulnerability, plain and simple, is hard. So is accepting my flaws, because it feels more comforting when others don’t see you as flawed, but rather, real.
It is easy to observe from the perspective of an outsider and call someone strong, labelling their wounds as beautiful and their healing process inspiring. However, it is difficult to feel this as the person living it. The work I have done to move on from traumas, such as grief, harmful relationships, and destructive behaviours, is not something I look back on with much pride or a sense of accomplishment. It was what I had to do to survive. Recovery is painful, often far from attractive, causing you to lose people and parts of yourself or to rewire your brain to accept the past. Deterioration at the repair points more accurately represents how my faults feel, like the rusted door hinges in Taylor’s pieces.
Modern and traditional Kintsugi have different takes on viewing traumas. They differ in their visualisation of what it means to heal, whether the scars are golden or rusting, but they both highlight and celebrate the breakage. Without fostering shame, they acknowledge the trauma’s presence rather than forcing it to become blended in or suppressed. The flaw makes the piece - like it does with people - unique. Celebrating human imperfections is what Kintsugi communicates. Being a human is not always pretty, which in itself I find rather beautiful. Kintsugi provides a new lens, that if I can find strength and elegance in these rusted metals and broken porcelain, maybe I can find it in myself, too. Maybe my brokenness has beauty, and there is a possibility for acceptance.
ADVENTURES IN VENICE
Yashfeen Afzaal
For most of my life, contemporary art had confused me. “What emotion am I supposed to feel right now?” “How are these splashes on a canvas meant to move me?”
“How are these shapes inspirational?”
It’s not like I had not tried to understand, but I just ended up with more questions than answers. In the summer of 2024, my deeply rooted perspective changed. I was in Venice for a month for summer school and an internship at the Venice Biennale. I had never spent so much time looking at contemporary art until this experience. Everyday I was being forced to give contemporary art a chance. I always knew that the concept of what art could be was very open, however, I had never personally seen first hand what that actually meant. At the Biennale, I saw exhibitions that would use scent as their medium of choice, or would solely use glass beads in order to tell their story. There were artworks that used sound frequencies to manipulate water and there were sculptures made solely out of cocoa. It was from seeing these strange mesmerizing pieces in real life that I was able to have a newfound appreciation for
them. It is one thing to be told why I should appreciate these artworks in a classroom, it is completely different to see for myself and come to my own conclusions.
I met a lot of people who were working in the art field who were contemporary art experts. Anyone could tell from hearing them speak that they genuinely loved art. Talking to people who just loved art for art’s sake was a refreshing experience. I realized that I did not have to force myself to understand. There might not necessarily be an underlying meaning to everything and not everything is supposed to be understood at first glance. It is okay to just look at an artwork and your only opinion of it being, “I think it looks nice.”
I think a lot of the time we try to find a hidden meaning behind everything and when we don’t understand we choose to avoid rather than confront. There are still a lot of things I do not understand, however, I’ve realized that I do not have to force myself to understand. Understanding takes time and I have chosen to go at my own pace.
Illustration by Sydney Hanson
Creative Director: Zahara Wong Groenewald
Photography: Nathan Zhe
Videography: Meg Horton
MUA: Khush Sagar
Models: Gillian Golds & Maia Cossette
I’M NOT YOUR FRIEND, BUT I’M NOT YOUR ENEMY
Cassidy Rae
Sometimes, when I pass you on the street, I can’t help but think about how well I used to know you. It’s strange to think of the time that’s passed, how much you could have changed - how much I have. I used to recognize your laugh in a crowd, recall your favourite songs, and mimic your mannerisms. My heart still catches on the people we once were.
Vulnerability always felt like a currency—if I shared pieces of myself, I feared others would have the power to betray or mock me. It wasn’t until I moved to a new province alone that I found people who made me want to share the things that bring me joy and the ways in which I have been hurt. I showed others more compassion after learning to articulate my own fears.
I know that none of us are perfect. We act out of self-preservation; after all, we can’t light another's path if our own flame has burned out. By prioritizing our own needs, we sometimes end up hurting others. Ironically, you were one of the people I trusted with my pain until you became one
of its sources. I know I have every right to talk about it if I choose - if you didn’t want to be perceived badly, then maybe you shouldn’t have done bad things. It was gutwrenching; knowing the person who once licked my wounds became the person who drew blood. Despite what we’ve been through, you could never be a villain in my story.
Sometimes I wish I hated you. It sucks when you don’t just know someone at their worst, but also at their best. I wish I didn’t still admire all the qualities that initially drew us together. After all the pain and selfdoubt experienced at your hands, I always find myself defending you. I wish I could be more cynical, evaluate your actions at face value, and accept that maybe you just didn’t care for me the way I cared for you. But I realize now that some people won’t love us as we deserve. Maybe we weren’t meant to stay in each other’s lives, but the lesson you taught me will help me be more assertive and wiser in the future, and for those reasons, I will show you grace.
IF THE WORLD WERE AS KINDAs Her
Doctors were never able to diagnose her, so when people ask me what disability she has, I always feel inclined to describe the way she functions. I explain that although she is only two years younger than me, she is developmentally always going to be around six years old. Oftentimes, the
conversation gets a little awkward — I find the blatant discomfort ironic, since they’re usually the same people who flippantly toss around demeaning slurs about people with developmental disabilities, justifying their diction with “I didn’t mean it like that.”
Natassia Lee
When I say that I’m a support worker, people tend to assume this somehow makes me more patient and kind than most. I hate this response because it rests on the assumption that only the most compassionate people in this world are capable of supporting people with disabilities. However, I don’t retort with a mean spirited comment, or shame their lack of exposure. Instead, I have learned to smile and swiftly disagree empathetically.
For the longest time, I wasn’t willing to feel empathy for others’ ignorance. When I was a child, I resented kids my age for staring at and whispering about my sister on the playground. I despised how they didn’t understand why they were being hurtful, and how my sister didn’t understand that the kids she wanted to play with were being mean. I hated being the only one who ended up being hurt by ignorance. It was hard being a kid, protecting a kid, from other kids. Eventually I decided to be mean back, and viscerally spell out all the ways they were less than her. Yet, my reasons didn’t make me justified, since my intentions were to be cruel. I thought that if the world wouldn’t be kind to her, then I wouldn’t be kind to the world.
My reasoning was partly because I knew that my sister was kind in all the ways that matter, and innocent in the ways that feel impossible. Knowing her, and being loved by her, has given me the perspective to frame humanity in a different way. As you grow up, you learn that you have gradually let go of parts that were once pure. You wince as your beliefs grow muddled by your contradicting choices, and you soon develop the urge to somehow scrub your skin raw of sin, hoping that one day you will feel justified again. Yet, my sister has always been a persisting rose in a graveyard. Consistently good, unanimously pure, and fortified in her innocence. Therefore, if she has no flaws to be scrubbed away, then why would I ever wish that she were different. If a person possesses qualities that are considered virtuous, then how does it take only the most compassionate people to support them.
In truth, developmental disabilities are grossly misunderstood by most. Oftentimes, people coast through life, without ever really considering it, because someone else’s disability does not concern them. This is simply not the case for those with disabilities and their loved ones. When I’m home, my days are structured around someone else, my job is structured around others, and yet caring for my sister, caring for my job, will never be a burden. That said, I feel disoriented being away from home. It’s alarming how people speak about disabilities while attending an institution to gain higher education.
I’ve learned that society lacks the tolerance and grace to hold space for what they don’t have the patience to understand. Instead they conclude that if a person does not fit within the neat margins of profitable utility then they are a liability to our fragile ecosystem. I used to feel a sense of grief for all the milestones that my sister might never experience. I had to come to terms with the reality that she will never live an independent life, and that my life will never be independent from hers. I grieved growing up in a way that she wouldn’t. Watching her stay young while I learned to lose my innocence in favour of responsibility. Wondering what the world might be like if it were as kind to her as she was to the world. Eventually, I realized that understanding functions was most profound when reciprocated, so I stopped blaming others for misunderstanding my sister, when she couldn’t understand them. However, I refuse to be a passive listener of ignorance, when I have the privilege of being literate and understood. I will break into conversations, and force others to face their own ill-informed sympathies, making them question why they must feel so uncomfortable. I am not the spokesperson for those with disabilities, I will not take up the spaces that others fought to hold, but I am my sister’s sister and she deserves the kindness that she gives to the world.
You, Me, and My Expectations
Love and culture are intertwined in ways that can be beautiful, but also complicated – especially when the person you’re with doesn’t fully embrace where you come from.
This summer I went to an engagement party. I watched the couple, both born and raised in the States and deeply connected to their Persian roots, celebrate their love in the most beautiful way – surrounded by family and dancing to our music. It was effortless, and it was proud.
I couldn’t help but think back to my ex. Sure, he liked the fun parts of my culture – the jumping over fire for Chaharshanbe Suri and other celebrations, but to him, these were just things that made me “fun” and “different.” He liked my culture when it was convenient, when it made me more exotic, but the rest? That was too much effort.
He didn’t connect with the customs I grew up with – small things like Persian music always playing in our house or gathering with family for hours and talking. It was subtle at first, but over time it became clear. I felt as if he didn’t want to visit my parents’ house anymore because we sometimes spoke in a language he didn’t understand. I began to feel as though I had to downplay or even apologize for holding onto my heritage. This is my culture. I spent the last 21 years of my life living in yours. Was one weekend with my Persian family really such a sacrifice?
My sister recently got married. Her husband is Greek, and he understands the importance of culture. Their wedding was a beautiful blend of both heritages. He sat through the Persian Sofreh Aghd ceremony proudly and spent two weeks on the phone with my mom, practicing his Farsi speech. This is love. Being not only seen, not just put up with, but fully embraced by your partner.
It became clear that cultural understanding isn’t just an optional extra in love. There’s something powerful about being with someone who not only loves you, but also values the things that shape you. I no longer want to explain or justify why my culture matters. My culture isn’t a burden. If love is about seeing each other for who we really are, then I don’t want to be a muted version of myself. I want someone who wouldn’t just love me, but would love my culture too.
Armita Dabirzadeh
CONNECTING
S Rhea Matharu
RClue: Four letter word for the feeling when two people’s lives intersect
Some people show their love through the classified five love languages, but I have found a sixth. One that exists within the confines of words, puzzles, and definitions. As someone who loves to write, express her feelings on paper, or read constantly, my love for crosswords came as no surprise. It began with the launch of Wordle. A story so sweet, who could not associate love with it? Wordle was created by Josh Wardle, a software engineer, who knew his partner loved word games, so he created a game for the two of them. I loved it instantly.
Clue: An exception to the “I don’t like routines” rule
To me, routines can sometimes feel monotonous. The one that does stick every morning is opening the New York Times Games app on my phone and completing my “sacred quartet.” The order follows: Mini Crossword, Strands, Connections, and Wordle. Although I enjoy the moments of solitude when I solve the puzzles myself, there is no joy that compares to doing them with someone else. It becomes a challenge you take on together to achieve a shared triumph.
AAt times, the ritual alludes to a treasure hunt where you try to guess the “group of four” together, grunting at each “one away.” It’s a shared frustration when you finally realize the purple category to be “word minus the two letters” or something of the sort. Or, the ritual is a race in itself with some friendly competition and maybe even light-hearted trash talk. Your eyes dart across the screen to find the word in the Strands grid before the other person. Bragging rights never seemed so valuable.
Sharing grids, kilometers apart
The difficult part of leaving for a semester abroad was the goodbyes I shared with everyone in my life. At moments when it felt like we were spaces apart, accentuated by the time difference, doing the puzzles together helped us bridge that gap. We also discovered the concept of making custom connections for one another, sharing inside jokes and fond memories. Though I couldn’t solve the Wordle over a cup of coffee, screenshots of our achievements throughout the day made it feel as though we were together for that one standstill moment.
Clue: The ultimate connection, forged through clues across and laughter down
Answer: The New York Times Games
Answer: Love
Answer: Puzzles
Answer: Remote
Clue:
Living Embrace
Creative Director: Taylor Pontet-DaSilva
Photography: Yaoqing Shu
Videography: Meg Horton
MUA: Khush Sagar Model: Chloe Yamin
The Sporey House Story
My poor house is sick. She sniffles and sobs. A water blue shudder cracks off her eye, shattering as it hits the green grass. I watch from the cobblestone, my sweet door moans. Swinging open and closed, balls of dust come out of her throat. Makes my eyes itch! I sneeze and cough just like her. Dust burns my throat, tasting like old pepper. Please, please, please, my house needs to get better!
All her lavender seeped out, just ghastly white brick looks back at me now. Her windows are so glossed, my reflection so clear, just like my eyes, after making a moat of tears. What’s a girl to do when her house is filled with bright colourful spores? The kind that cling and bite, twisting themselves into looking nice.
In the beginning, they’d sprout themselves into the shapes of arrows. Leading me down to the basement, or up into the attic, growing over the light and doorknobs. Hungry spores eat all the air in the room, too! I’d gasp and reach in the dark, as spores whisper closely, “your true path lurks just past here,” and “you’ll be punished.” Turns out not every bright being is your friend.
Scrub, scrub. The windows and corners, wash away every spore. Where did they go? How’d they get in? I can’t let this happen again! I’d mop and dust, so every spot was clean. But to my surprise, I saw some bright green! It poked out the fireplace, and whispered to me, “You’ll never get clean, you’re stuck with me!” So I made myself comfortable, back straight, open ears. I need to know why these spores are here.
This spore declared it was sent by Saturn. I have a higher purpose, untapped power! I just had to change, run off and away. Then I’ll be better in a million different ways! It sounded quite enticing. But I like myself, my life, and my house. I keep a good heart, I try my best to figure myself out. Have I gotten it all wrong? Do I know nothing at all?
The bright green grew, bringing orange and blue. They all looked at me, giggling in riddles and clues. I’m a jumble of misguided intentions, and I deeply needed their help. They just wanted the best for me, and shouldn’t I want that, too?
I looked at them sincerely, maybe they’re onto something… I haven’t always been the greatest. Have I been
going down the wrong path all this time? Sent from Saturn to help me… Should I reach for the divine? Yet as I thought, they giggled and grew, covering up the mirrors, my chair, and pillows, too! My stomach feels sick, my brow begins to sweat. Why did I panic if they’re supposed to be my friends? Perhaps change is scary. I cry and cry. But now I don’t recognize a single thing in my living room.
I painted my rocking chair peach after slipping in the river. I scraped both my knees and even got a sliver! I was young and hurt, but the bandages and tweezers were that shade of peach. They reminded me I would be fine with whatever, whenever. My white bookshelf is now a big blue blob! No literature in sight, just giggling spores who made my dawn a bad night. So if I listen to them, I can’t read stories in my rocking chair? I know enough about who I am, that’s not going to be my life!
I furrowed up my brow, my face turned red. Not a single spore in this room is a guide nor friend! So I stood up on two feet, eyes shimmied at the enemy, “You’re so wrong and little. Never again!” I walked around the room, stuck out my chest, “All of you are
Dalyah Schiarizza
wrong! I’m learning to be my best. Go back to Saturn! Get out of my home!” Some spores shrieked, no giggles prevailed, some of them whispered, and others vanished into thin air. The purple spores on my doorknob chose not to stay, so I marched out of my house.
I sit on the cobblestone; my house is so sick. I look at my fountain, now spewing something peachy to drink. Sip, deep breath. I walk around the house, opening windows, so the spores get out. I dare those spores to leave, or else I’ll come in! I’ll say that they’re wrong or pretend they don’t exist. I cannot give them power; I just want them out. So many spores in her chimney and basement that giggle and ooze. Neon is so ugly in my house of pastels and nudes. A sick girl and her sick house, what are we to do? But her last shudder winks at me, surely we’ll make it through.
Once upon a time, in a land far far away, there was a princess who lived within the walls of her own mind. It was her greatest strength and her most persistent obstacle. In spite of her regal upbringing, she possessed an air of contemplation. Her thoughts occupied the majority of her mind, constantly weaving threads of stories that never seemed to end. Embedded in these stories were the stares that lingered too long, the tonal shifts in words, the unfinished puzzles of “what ifs and maybes.”
Each night, as she lay in her bed, comfort was never fully achieved. It was one made with the highest quality of fabrics, layered with mattresses as soft as clouds. Each placed with a quilt in between coming from all over the world. And yet, she would toss and turn. She would spiral into the abyss of her thoughts. She would leap into conclusions. She was restless without knowing what for. Was there a lingering task she had forgotten about? Surely the palace was kept to the best of her abilities! The garden was tended to—was there a weed unplucked? Was there a word misspoken at yesterday’s speech? Her head hurt, weighed down by the lack of answers to these never ending questions. How was she to wear a crown if her mind could not even bear a few thoughts?
She tried to drown out the questions by shutting her eyes. But a slight sensation - just under the surface - nagged her all night! It prodded against her spine, sending ripples of discomfort into her sleep. The sensation mocked her, mirroring the ripples of thoughts she could not drown out. She turned, switched sides, and created a mountain of pillows. Nothing stopped the poking sensation, like a thorn digging into her skin. She was stiff and tense, just below the threshold of rest.
As the sun rose, she sighed at another failed attempt. Her sleep had been disturbed and her eyes spoke the truth. As she performed her daily duties, something was different this morning. She still felt the impression of the small, invisible weight. Had it followed her to the next day? She occupied herself with new tasks, responsibilities, and acquaintances. She picked on new hobbies. She did ballet. She played the violin. She cooked a new recipe. Her plié was unbalanced from the weight. Her posture was hunched when playing the violin. Her dish had too many peas!
That night, she couldn’t take it anymore. She had lost too many battles to insomnia; she could not handle the tossing and turning. The princess rose from her bed, and began to strip down the layers of bedding. She peeled back each mattress, one by one, inspecting each for a sign of the weight she had felt all day.
And there it was! At the very bottom of the bed, beneath all those layers! She had finally found it: a small, singular pea!
She stared and glared at the miniscule object. The green orb had disturbed her all night and day. How could something so small and trivial have had such a grand effect on her? As she held it her hands, she studied the herb. This miniature sphere had left such a large impression on her. Its pressure had lingered
for hours. Holding it, however, actualized the size of the object and diminished its pestering feeling. It was so small. How could she have let it affect her so much? She placed it on her windowsill, watching the moon’s light reflect on it. The green began fading away with the celestial silver.
The princess went to bed, placing her head on her plush pillows. Her bed was much softer, more comfortable than it had been in weeks. The tower of mattresses hugged her tired body. She fell asleep staring at the pea on the sill. It was no longer underneath her. There was no more poking, nudging, or nagging of any sort. Somehow, the awareness of it had calmed her down.
She considered all of her past thoughts. Her mind did not urge to replay them. She would get to them the next morning.
And maybe that was enough, the princess thought. Like the pea, her thoughts were too small, too petite to disturb her sleep. She could always peel away the mattresses or change the bedding if the impression returned. After all, the pea was no match for her!
That was the first night the princess had a
FIGURE HEAD
Jaimie Sieger
This evening, the woman sits at the desk in her home, hands clutching the ivory arms. Her desk has no items, just a shelf with several small keepsakes, one of which shines amongst the rest—her dream.
Before there was the woman, there was the girl. Long ago, with ocean-deep admiration, that girl set her dream on the mantel.
Carefully lacquered curves on a hull. Greens, blues, and the most vibrant hues were painted purposefully. A breeze fluttered through the delicate fabric of the dream, whistling a magically melodic tune. And at the centre of it was
a grand, strapping Figurehead.
Marble painstakingly moulded. Intricate carvings lined the edges. The young girl would stare, always awestruck.
What a pretty dream! I can’t believe it will be mine someday. I need to grow, and I will finally have the tools to carry my dream. To reveal it to the world! One day, it will sail. Her shadow danced across the wall as she
got ready for bed–mighty and towering. The tiny girl slid into the covers with a contended sigh. She is ready for her dream.
But the dream lay stagnant—next to children’s books, then novels. Time passed, and her head stayed in the stars. Her once-neighbouring dream moved into wonderland.
The woman polishes it and periodically shifts its position on the mantel. It never moves past its calculated confines. The figurehead looks safer up there. She fills her mind with ill-fated formalities.
If I take it down and hold it, will it shatter into a million tiny pieces?
If I nurture it into self-realized perfection, will I be forced to watch the varnish erode into obscurity?
What was once magnificent now looked makeshift. Charming, yet rudimentary–was it truly special?
The girl certainly thought so. But the woman isn’t so sure. On the mantel, it stays. Collecting dust next to Dorothy and Homer, warped from age.
There is no place like home, but she was flattened anyway.
Two little feet hanging, slippers that would have taken her anywhere.
In the morning, the woman sits on a too-small chair. Her eyes track the feet of children as they give chase. One boy reaches for a toy ship out of reach, gaze drifting a tad too far and locking with hers. With a shake of her head, he freezes and makes a begrudging retreat. The woman settles, soothed by her significance.
MIDWINTER! MIDWINTER! MIDWINTER! MIDWINTER!
In the midwinter I am convinced the cold will last forever.
When the stiff wind hits it’s more than skin deep it pierces my soul sets frost into the depths of me just as my heart began to thaw.
The sun barely rises a source of dim light skimming the tops of the pines through it caresses my skin from afar, all the same.
The sharp air in my lungs gives me a false sense of clarity. To be chilled to the bone is better than to feel nothing at all.
My restless body wanders to where ice crystals gather dancing across the ageless lake the deep waters still run below the vast sheets of ever softening ice
I have been buried I have breathed the stillness below layer upon layer of frozen earth lips blue, fingers numb.
MIDWINTER!
And yet I feel her warmth only coming from the resurrected February sun. She renews the withering world. Snow shining iridescent, honouring the golden goddess. For her
MIDWINTER!
Jocelyn Carr
T MATE
Creative Director: Aglaia Joithe
Photography: Andie Butler
Videography: Jorina Lee
MUA: Anika Tasneem
Model: Serena Wong
MUSE MAGAZINE
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
Rhea Matharu
DIRECTORS
Creative Director
Nadisha Gautam
Print Director
Dalyah Schiarizza
Online Director
Nicole Dancey
Marketing Director
Armita Dabirzadeh
Business Director
Cassidy Rae
HEADS
Head of Layout
Ali Al-Safadi
Head of Editorials
Aglaia Joithe
Head of Photography
Jade Robinson
Head of Videography
Hadleigh Green
Co-Heads of Creative Initiatives
Olivia Smith
Midhat Mujaddid
Head of Hair and Makeup
Khush Sagar
Co-Heads of Publishing
Cordelia Jamieson
Sydney Toby
Head of Music
Marijka Vernooy
Co-Heads of Podcast
Katarina Bojic
Jaimie Frank
Head Illustrator
Sydney Hanson
Head of Online Marketing
Paton Morrison
Head of Event Marketing
Emma Barnes
Co-Heads of TikTok
Khush Sagar
Kyla Harry
Head of Finance
Ryan Ross
Head of Events
Rachel Heaney
Arts Editor
Carolyn Kane
Fashion Editor
Beth Hood
Entertainment Editor
Liyah Suliman
Lifestyle Editor
Cassidy Rae
MUSE’ings Editor
Jillian Morris
Creative Writing Editor
Dalyah Schiarizza
CREATIVE
Layout Designers
Sydney Thompson
Paige Stubbs
Nicole Turner
Sophie Holt Videographers
Jorina Lee
Meg Horton
Emily Fuhrman
Sofia Merulla Photographers
Andie Butler
Ariana Mawji
Harvey Doniego
Sheana Tchebotaryov
Nathan Zhe
Borgoss Shu
Creative Assistants
Olivia Bermingham
Olivia Parent
Taylor Pontet-DaSilva
Zahara Wong Groenewald
Gemma Falasconi
Hair & Makeup Artists
Natassia Lee
Anika Tasneem
ONLINE
Online Editors
Isabella Persad
Maya Kromer
Molly Robson
Online Music Editors
Abigail Rossman
Sofia Leach
Podcast Editor
Michael Zuzek
Podcast Assistants
Sierra Raffiek
Deanne Pinto
Online Contributors
Alexandra Culbert
Amitis Tavakolli
Ben Linton
Emily Parkinson
Evelyn Hylands
Julian King
Nadia Garcia
Natassia Lee
Nathan McAffee
Simrit Grewal
Sofia Aparicio
Tia Olesen
Online Music Contributors
Aurora Anderson
Kate Bassett
Lois Aguda
Madison Scott
Online Illustrators
Paige Chiusolo
Harvey Doniego
Khush Sagar
Keira Sainsbury
Maya Latzel
MARKETING
Marketing Coordinator
Zoe Porlier
Mabel Hong
BUSINESS
Events Coordinator
Isabella Wong
Business Assistant
Sasha Van Leeuwen
