Taylor Jones, Elena Reyes, Elise Hsaio, Emily Farhat, Teagan Hollman, Ana Liu, Megan Dobie
Whenyou opened this publication, your hands made direct contact with the cover. As you gazed into humanoid, snakelike eyes, perhaps you prepared yourself for what you believed would be a linear story with a beginning, middle and end. OUROBOROS, however, is a never ending cycle: birth, life, death, and rebirth. Inescapable destruction, yet immeasurable hope. In our 25th year, SHEI chooses to swallow its own tail, intentionally disregarding our ambition to be timeless and withhold from trends. An impossible yet relentless ask as a fashion magazine. Instead, we allow ourselves to be tasted by the serpent's tongue.
We begin this issue with death, laying bare the destructive cycle that brought on our heroine’s demise. Ophelia is SHEI’s retelling of Shakespeare’s iconic tragic ingénue. In our rendition, she’s drowned mad by her desperation for beauty, surrounded by excess and overconsumption. Drawing ever closer to the story's beginning, The Cure unveils what led to her final moments: chasing perfection yet again, but now through medical means. However, this time we ask, is this chase self imposed? Are we the villains in our own story? Or is there something larger at play—a hidden social force with a wicked agenda, shaping these expectations from behind the scenes?
Snake Eyes averts our gender expectations. We see feminine models dressed in masculine drag, representative that over 60% of creative directors for major fashion houses are men, yet are the ones making decisions for the women’s market. Our models are willing to bet it all on these trends, not understanding that our masc model–dressed in feminine drag–is the consumer who truly dictates who wears what. The Tortoise and the Hare critiques said consumer. In this, we tackle another retelling, this time of a famous fable. The tortoise serves as a physical manifestation of sustainable fashion, wearing garments made of deadstock vintage fabric, sustainably constructed and designed by myself. Meanwhile, the hare illustrates fast fashion racing ahead, but famously we know that slow and steady always wins the race. In the continuous sprint towards flawlessness, our final shoot presents our personal vision of perfection. Golden Ratio is our rebirth. As we salivate over our rattle, we shed a new skin.
As you find your way to the end of this truly endless cycle, I invite you to pause on our back cover. Gaze into another, perhaps truer version of the snake we began with, looking into new yet familiar eyes. Reflect on the cycles within your own life. I’ll then ask you to flip this edition over, connect stares once more with our viper vixen, and begin the cycle again, this time with fresh eyes and fresh scales. A fresh start, as we enter our next quarter century of SHEI Magazine.
Withevery new year comes a celebration of new beginnings. We celebrate change, innovation, and fresh starts. A new year is a blank slate of opportunity, begging for the scratch of a pencil or the stroke of a paintbrush. Everything is made anew again. Or is it?
New trends emerge constantly, leading us to believe we are in an ever-changing society, with fresh ideas around every corner. We buy and buy, simply to keep up with the latest skincare trend or aesthetic. But we can never quite feel “set”.
Every industry melds together to become the ultimate predator, preying on not only our wallets but also our insecurities. It flashes its snakelike eyes at us while baring its fangs. It becomes impossible to resist its allure, and we feel mesmerized to follow its lead. Rather the snake being charmed, it is the one charming us. Hypnotizing us with its every move, a promise to provide us with happiness, but only for so long. We step closer to its mouth, entranced by its seductive nature, wholly climbing inside of its mouth for a taste of contentment. We are the tail it clutches in its jaws, doomed to be eaten and destroyed, only to emerge again on the outside–this time as the head–eating ourselves once again to maintain some semblance of continuity. Hungry for more, we chase the balance between what we know and the fleeting satisfaction it brings.
We have become trapped in an endless cycle of trends, forever chasing our own tail for the cheap thrill that comes with every dollar spent.
OUROBOROS compels us to seek out the cycles we may find in our lives, and to question which ones are fruitful to remain in and which are not. As you flip through this issue, I urge you to reflect on the trends present in your own life. Whether it be the cyclical nature of the Earth, your own habits, overconsumption, or even the ongoing pursuit of justice and equality, cycles are present at nearly every turn in our lives. Choose carefully which you fall prey to; once you’re inside, it can be nearly impossible to escape.
Truly, which trends do we devour, and which devour us?
Melissa
PHOTOGRAPHERS
ANISHA CHOPRA
SORY KEITA
STEFAN PETRMICHL
STYLISTS
BOBBY CURRIE
ELENA SHAHEEN
BEAUTY
MILES HIONIS
VIDEOGRAPHER
JOHANNES PARDI
TAKARA WILSON
CAMILLE CHIPPEWA
KELSEY BECKETT
GRAPHIC DESIGNER
ISABELLA SCHNEIDER
MODEL
PRODUCTION ASSISTANTS
MICAH WEBSTER-BASS
BETWEEN YOU AND I
GRAPHIC DESIGNER MARGARET LAAKSO WRITER MAKAYLA WHITSELL
“And with them words of so sweet breath compos’d
As made the things more rich. Their perfume lost, Take these again; for to the noble mind
Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.”
- Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 1
Daisies face the beams of the August sun as the freedom of new chapters lies upon the horizon, so bright you feel as if you’re walking on water. Initial liberty becomes a fleeting feeling in the eye of regret. Wide-eyed innocence guides your pure perception as the voice of ambition crawls up your spine. The world seemed to become much bigger as society welcomed you with open arms, allowing their voices of ideals to seep into your skin.
18. A door opened for you, others’ eyes becoming fixated upon each shining potential. Feeling invincible as you enter adulthood, you brace yourself for the beginning of college. Fighting effortlessly, academics drown out the loudening noise as you struggle to find balance, struggling to feel good enough. As the tightrope thins with each misstep, you maintain poise, keeping the comfort of self that had led you. Balance withers as your eye becomes fixated on the pressuring potential, sung to you by choirs of expectation. As the melodies leave bloody traces in your back, they lead you to a garden of worth. They tell you time is a currency not only for ambition, but an hourglass of youth that grants you admiration. The choice of presentation becomes of utmost importance, discarding study and tracing the mirror carefully, following every “could be.” Obsessing over fixing each shaky line, the garden that you face in the mirror provides promises of perfection, working carefully to encapsulate the myriad of women before you begging to be embodied.
“She’s nice but she never puts effort into her appearance.”
“She could definitely stand to lose a little weight.”
”She dresses like she’s still in high school.”
Shouting at you, it becomes unclear to which extent each knife is thrust upon you, or self-inflicted, moments of silence becoming a sign that you had done enough.
“There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember. And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts.”
- Hamlet, Act 4, Scene 5
Amidst a sea of thousands of ambitious and accomplished people, what is it exactly that sets one apart? Should you even aim to be apart? You dress your face to ease your mind; underneath wearing the constant desire to be remembered.
Attempting to remind yourself of who you are, you turn to what is most familiar: praise. Echoes of thoughts in the form of comments and likes, ultimately validating the curated self displayed. But you are infatuated by the image these tools grant you, supplementing breaths of fresh air for the love you give to a reflection. Keeping your head above the water becomes an all too familiar ordeal differentiating fate and selfinfliction.
You feel “chosen” by your own community or relationships, forgetting the path you had paved on your own. What truly matters is that you were embraced for what you had to advertise—-both physical and mental qualities deemed acceptable. Connection loses its authenticity, rather rewarding you with the sweet silence of feeling enough. Chasing tirelessly for validation, transpiring great lengths, the mirror morphs as the reflection distorts the girl you now find yourself disgusted by. You’ve bought the clothes, the skin, the body, and the personality, in hopes of maintaining the eternal garden of praise. Your hobbies have become upkeep, cutting off any withering branch that strays from what needs to be
seen to maintain the picturesque scenery. Losing sight of the gardener, you silently beg the eyes of your beholders to reveal to you the worth of what lies underneath. The pages of the story become detached from its spine, rewritten as an illustration. It seems as if the river of thousands of people floating through life mocks your determination to fit every expectation that has been forced upon you, simply for finding hostage in what you could be: a mirror of what an industry wants you to be. The destination is clear: to eternally shatter back into place.
“The expectancy and rose of the fair state, The glass of fashion and the mound of form The observed of all observers!”
- Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 1
“I wish I could be like her,” an all-familiar thought doom-scrolling through idealistic feeds and photos offered among the repetitive “I need to.” You need to appear as if you’re glowing, requiring the perfect skin to cover up with the “no makeup look.” Finding serenity within each product that advertises the spitting image of perfection, investing in the prospect of being bulletproof. The mirror tells you, “You can’t sell yourself without a brand, without being a still image of time,”. Each blemish haunts you, working overtime to scrub away the healing cracks. You apply the glue at the possibility of those catching a sight of this shattered reflection; covering open wounds. This reassurance is only thirty products away when skincare has evolved into a several-step routine meant to prevent aging and mend your threatening imperfections. Being told every day through a screen that you need this product to find the peace you’ve been starving for, the anticipation of ideals consumes you with each click to buy. Despite your investment and perfect skin routine, the cracks remain. But remember, enhancement is just another click away as long as you remember to wipe it off at the end of the day.
Consumed in the protection the daily application provides you with, between both your face and clothes, you obsess further on the untouched, seemingly unchangeable, “fixable” body. To have curves five years ago was aspired, seeing thousands of women advocating for acceptance of themselves amidst the sex appeal it provided for society. Now? Try Ozempic, try fasting, try the new workout and supplement program that will provide you with the spitting image of what it means to be perceived as acceptable. You can even join a community of other women who advocate bringing yourself to the physical edge to eventually admire
the mirror. The desirability of both self and others becomes a race in who can produce leading images before it’s out of style. Funding perfection within the shedding mold provides an ever-distorting painting of what a “perfect” body is, and how it can supposedly provide you with the missing piece. The image of each “could be” haunts every imperfection, your saving grace becoming a prison.
Desiring to encapsulate effortless femininity, your body becomes an exhibition of the mold preached by the trending mold. The quality of your face becomes the dictating force of each added routine step. Masking itself in empowerment and accessibility, the industry that seemingly advocates for empowerment slithers its way into fast and cheap offerings to exploit the limitless devotion to the glass image. With time out of the picture, motivation lies within the incentive to sell this image for your worth, fueled by unlimited methods to manufacture eternal perfection.
“Larded all with sweet flowers; Which beeper to the grave did not go With true-love showers.”
- Hamlet, Act 4, Scene 5
You search the desolate garden, surrounded still by picturesque beauty but no longer bearing fruit. The pool of consumption once offered protection, yet seeps over as novelty replaces fluidity.
A window to see the roots have been cut in these lengths, the flowers everlasting above the surface but to no avail. With your lips sealed beneath the flowing triumph, you still cannot help but feel any sort of gratification aside from the admiration basked in, and fulfillment in the lengths of preservation in the death of what was there from the beginning. Diligently staying put within the restful pool of obsession, your eyes sink below the stream. Both the beauty and refuge of the garden begin to melt away as you scramble to fix each shattered piece. Looking up into the light in search of a breath, you see the pure girl’s reflection. In desperation you reach for direction to the surface, setting aside the disgust at your past self. Pleading for familiarity as she traces each glass wound, you beg for a path back. Masked by perfection, the entangled voices who had directed you await to be unknotted within a scene of illusioned serenity, lying with you in a pool of infliction. She made a choice, following in the footsteps of the fates before you, bridging the gaps of repeating time.
THE CURE THE CURE THE CURE THE CURE THE CURE THE CURE
PHOTOGRAPHERS
ANISHA CHOPRA
SORY KEITA
STYLISTS
BOBBY CURRIE
ELENA SHAHEEN
BEAUTY
MILES HIONIS
CAMILLE CHIPPEWA
VIDEOGRAPHERS
JOHANNES PARDI
CLAIRE STEPHENS
GRAPHIC DESIGNER
MILCAH KRESNADI
MODELS
GRACE DONNELLY
ELLA DALE LEWIS
BLOOD PRESSURE CUFF CORSET - DANA GRAY
WRITER
AVERY WHITE
GRAPHIC DESIGNER
AVERY WHITE
Snak e eyeS
PHOTOGRAPHERS
ANISHA CHOPRA
SORY KEITA
STYLISTS
BOBBY CURRIE
ELENA SHAHEEN
BEAUTY
MILES HIONIS
CAMILLE CHIPPEWA
VIDEOGRAPHER
JOHANNES PARDI
GRAPHIC DESIGNER
KATIE KELL
MODELS
CIARAN CONLIN
BROOKLYNNE BATES
CHLOE MANOS
EMMA ZHANG
MIA LOLLO
SARAH KABALA
STELLA MOORE
Th e of
resistance:
Holly Hughes’ Cyclical Battle for Artistic Freedom
Photos from Lisa Guido (The Dog and Pony Show, 2010)
Holly Hughes, an internationally acclaimed performance artist and professor at UM Stamps, is celebrated for their fearless exploration of sexuality, identity, and gender politics. Their career, defined by an unyielding cycle of resistance and endurance, showcases their ability to challenge and reshape restrictive norms through art. From the controversial NEA Four case to groundbreaking performances, Hughes has consistently pushed against restrictive norms through personal and political battles while simultaneously reimagining new ways to express themself.
Hughes’ story is not only one about art and performance, it’s also one of survival. In the 1990s, they rose to prominence as one of the “NEA Four,” along with Karen Finley, John Fleck, and Tim Miller, who became entangled in a national controversy when their funding from the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA) was revoked due to the queer themes present in their work. For Hughes, this wasn’t simply an issue of losing financial support: it was a direct violation of their right to exist as a queer artist and their freedom to share their story with the world.
Their work explored themes deeply rooted in their identity and community, yet the government deemed it “indecent” and unworthy of public funding. As a result, Hughes faced the horror of being publicly berated, receiving death threats, and becoming a target of a larger political agenda.
“The government is coming after you, the federal government,” Hughes said.“You’re in the papers as a joke, being wrongly accused of being a child molester.”
At the heart of this issue was the cyclical return of battles fought by marginalized communities in America, where progress is seemingly made, just to be challenged once again. As a result, these communities are forced to fight again and again for the basic right to exist in peace, free from harassment. The NEA controversy brought issues of queer identity and artistic freedom to the forefront, revealing the deep-rooted fear surrounding queer narratives. Hughes was forced into the public eye, where they witnessed firsthand how fear of the unknown could be weaponized.
“We were concerned about our grants, but we were also concerned about the constitutionality of this, not just for ourselves, but for freedom of expression in general,” Hughes said. “We went to the Supreme Court and we lost– we lost eight to one.”
Hughes believes that one of the “pernicious things” the government did was pass a law targeting queer content in publicly funded art, institutionalizing the discrimination they were already facing in society and labeling queer identity as something unworthy of federal support.
But instead of erasing Hughes, the experience transformed them. They emerged from this period with an intensified commitment to their art, a heightened understanding of political power, and a determination to keep telling stories that defy conventional norms.
“In some ways, it was life-altering,” Hughes said. “Completely life-altering.”
In the years following the NEA Four controversy, Hughes continued to explore the complexity of queer identity and feminist narratives, often finding themself revisiting similar themes in new ways. Their work in performance and playwriting remains intimate and direct, utilizing humor and wit to expose the absurdities of sexism and homophobia. Their pieces, such as “Clit Notes” and “The Well of Horniness”, are known for their unapologetic representation of queer women’s experiences.
“Clit Notes”, a semi-autobiographical one-person show, dives into Hughes’ journey as a queer woman finding their identity amid societal marginalization. Through humor, personal anecdotes,
and candidness, they dismantled stereotypes around lesbian identity and critiqued the reductive portrayals of queer women in mainstream media.
In “The Well of Horniness”, Hughes takes a more satirical approach, leaning into camp and parody to examine power, desire, and lesbian eroticism within the exaggerated tropes of noir melodrama. By transforming classic pulp fiction themes into a comedic spectacle, they critique the societal expectations surrounding sexuality and mock heteronormative frameworks.
Both works not only reclaim queer women’s narratives but also invite audiences to engage with complex themes through laughter and reflection, positioning Hughes as a pioneering voice in queer performance art.
While much has changed since the 1990s, Hughes recognizes a troubling repetition in today’s political world. The public backlash against LGBTQ+ and feminist expressions hasn’t died down, instead taking on even more targets such as transgender rights and drag performances.
Hughes notices parallels between the attacks on queer artists in their era and the targeted political schemes against marginalized groups today. They believe these oppressive “wedge issues” are performed by those in power to divide communities and push conservative biases, further perpetuating cycles of misinformation and discrimination.
Despite this oppression, Hughes’ career is not defined by these external battles alone. Instead, their artistic journey reflects a personal cycle of reinvention. Hughes has repeatedly transformed their art to adapt to new media, finding ways to reach audiences in digital spaces when live performances became limited.
This adaptation mirrors their resilience—an artist who never stops evolving, even when the world around them imposes limitations.
Hughes’ career demonstrates that the cyclical nature of history while demoralizing, can also be a source of strength. The returns of old battles give rise to new forms of resistance and expression. For Hughes, their return to themes of identity, community, and defiance is not a retreat but a forward march, continuing to push boundaries and redefine what is possible.
“The systems that are oppressive, capitalism, racism, sexism, those babies are structural, and they were built to last,” Hughes said. “As much as I wish I dismantled them, there’s a lot of people that are loyal to them. It’s really hard, you’re working on striking down one part of the project and then somebody’s behind you rebuilding it.
Holly Hughes’ life’s work serves as a reminder that the cycles of history, while brutal, also bring new beginnings. Their art continues to challenge, question, and redefine the narratives around queerness and feminism. With each reinvention, they carry forward the collective memory of past battles, reminding us that art can be a bridge between generations. Hughes’ journey is a testament to the power of resilience and creativity in the face of oppression, embodying a true cycle of strength and resistance.
WRITER
ADDISON HINESMAN
GRAPHIC DESIGNER
YUNA HWANG
Said the Tortoise one day to the Hare:
“I’ll run you a race if you dare, I’ll bet you cannot.
Arrive at that spot, As quickly as I can get there.”
Tortoise Look - Designed by Dana Gray
While the slow Tortoise cr eeps ,
T he Hare makes four leaps ,
And then loafs around in the sun.
PHOTOGRAPHERS
ANISHA CHOPRA
SORY KEITA
STYLISTS
BOBBY CURRIE
ELENA SHAHEEN
BEAUTY
MILES HIONIS
VIDEOGRAPHER
NICOLE DELONG
TAKARA WILSON
JOHANNES PARDI
PRODUCTION ASSISTANT
CAMILLE CHIPPEWA
GRAPHIC DESIGNER
STORY TRIPLETT
MODELS
ABBEY PHILLIPSON
KENNEDY JOHNSON
“Ye t you’re last . It is better to get a good start
HAIR MEMORIES & OTHER
Spring in Georgia weeps.
Every April, the wild grasses that live behind my house flood with a trillion tiny raindrops. Thick sheets of rain hang dense and silvery in the air, like hair after a warm shower. I drive to school in silence most mornings, frustrated at the drenched ends of my jeans, but mostly in solidarity with Earth’s grief. I let the rain become my music. I let my hair get wet.
You see, unlike the Earth, which knows when to grieve and cleanse itself of things that are well past their implicit expiration date, I can never let go of anything. I pin stained receipts and old movie tickets to my bedroom wall. I keep every card and letter anyone has ever written to me, even from people I hate. I hoard thousands of photos in my phone, as if all the beautiful things in my life are under threat of extinction. I live in constant fear of the possibility of grief, so I cling to memories like a lifeline; I let my hair get long and my jeans get wet, trudging along on the flooded asphalt while all my past selves sit inside me, fermenting.
At fourteen, I received a haircut so short that I cried myself to sleep. It wasn’t just that I could no longer recognize myself or that I had spent a total of sixty dollars (although those are both things worth crying about), but that I had been, without my consent, ripped away from a part of myself I was not yet ready to leave. My parents couldn’t understand the loss I felt. What’s the matter? It’s just hair.
It wasn’t just hair. It was my first kiss. It was my first love. It was every new thing I had learned in school. It was every late-night phone call with my best friend and every song I had heard that made me get up and dance. It was a record of my life that had been cut away, and it would never grow back.
In Native American culture, I have learned, cutting hair has historically been seen as a method of stripping one away from their identity.
Hair is a “physical extension of all [their] thoughts, prayers, dreams, aspirations, experiences and history,” and thus, to cut hair, especially by force, is to cut away the parts of us that make us who we are—the parts that make us human. The only time hair is intentionally cut is after the experience of a significant loss, to represent “the end of something that once was and a new beginning.” Although not directly tied to my own cultural identity, this perspective of hair as a sacred extension of personal history is one that resonates with me deeply. While my heart feels and my brain thinks, my hair lives—it experiences and remembers life just as I do.
In a similar way, other cultures assign deep significance to hair, albeit with different meanings. Instead of symbolically starting a fresh beginning through a new haircut, Hasidic Jews refrain from cutting their hair for thirty days after the death of a loved one. This doesn’t just include the hair on their heads—they are also forbidden from shaving or trimming even their eyebrows. This signifies a period of mourning: physical upkeep and appearances are of little importance when someone you love has died. But I secretly assign a second meaning to this practice. Hair is a method of memory, and in order to mourn, you have to remember.
Sometimes, I lay in bed for hours watching the warm Georgia rain descend in torrents upon my windows. I think about all the ages of hair I’ve already grown out of, and I mourn. The hair I had at thirteen is no longer attached to my head, even though I still feel thirteen sometimes, wandering around the universe with no clue how to be a person. It’s tempting to keep all my hair, to never cut it again, so that when I am twenty-three or forty-seven or fifty-nine I can reach up to a spot near my thigh or collarbone and whisper, “This is when I had my first heartbreak. This is when I survived the winter.” Like particles of sediment gradually cresting into pillars of salt, I let my hair grow and grow, its length a testament to the life I have led since its last cut. My body is a museum, and I am its curator.
In the summer of 2023, Haley Blais released a single titled “Baby Teeth”. I became almost obsessive; I listened to it in the shower, in the car, in my room on repeat. I sat curled up in my bed, mesmerized by the music video’s sparkling forms and dreamlike sequences, the way the sparkling trees seemed simultaneously dead and alive. Haley drifted in and out of frame, singing, “I want my baby teeth back.” I wondered if she wanted her baby hair back, too.
A month after the release of the song, I took a plane by myself for the first time to Gambier, Ohio, to attend the Kenyon Review Young Writers Workshop, a two-weeklong creative writing program. Gambier was a place of hypothetical grief: the endless fields of barren farmland, tattered American flags stapled to collapsing houses, tall oaks veiled in a perpetual haze. Everything seemed to be suspended between denial and acceptance—a town not quite aware that it was no longer living. It’s funny, I thought numbly on the bus ride to Kenyon College, how dead things can be so beautiful. After all, only the roots of hair are made of living cells.
At the end of its first week, the creative writing program held a talent show. I signed up immediately. I borrowed a friend’s guitar, laid my back on the warm grass, and let my fingers run over the familiar steel of the strings. I pressed play on my phone and began to learn my favorite song.
That night, I sang “Baby Teeth” in front of a hundred people. Although I usually have no qualms about performing or facing pressure onstage, I felt myself shaking. I was no longer putting on a show; it was just me and a borrowed guitar, telling a hundred people that I miss my childhood. That I am so deeply entrenched in my past selves, I won’t be able to grasp even my own death until I’m in the casket. That even though the Earth urges parts of me to fall away naturally, like my teeth and my hair, I still find myself unable to let anything go. There was something so much more vulnerable about this performance than any that had come before it.
It was more than just a cover of a song; it was a confession of a truth I had kept inside me for a long, long time.
When I finally exited the bright lights of the auditorium, blinking in Gambier’s gray-green haze, I found that it was raining.
After spending seventeen years running from grief, I have come to two realizations. The first is that I may not ever get over my fear of losing myself. I may very well spend the rest of my life suspended in limbo: wanting to move on, unable to let go. At best a blemish and at worst a wound, this fear is a permanent incision in my side.
The second, however, is that this fear is a way to keep myself human. It is both a blessing and a curse that we as a species are able to remember every beautiful and complex and ugly thing that has happened to us. While the Earth cleanses itself every spring, washed anew with a blank slate, we remember what the Earth has let go. We go to funerals and weddings and graduation parties. We celebrate life and all the grief that comes with it. The Earth could never be a museum; it doesn’t spend its years collecting and preserving its wealth of artifacts and memories. It doesn’t remember a baby bird’s first flight or the death of an old oak tree. It doesn’t remember the rain from last year’s spring. Seasons change and lives are lost, but if nothing is fixed, nothing is sacred.
My hair is waist-length now, and this is what I know: I know my very first kiss and the way her hair fell around her face. I know my best friend’s exasperated smile when I do something stupid. I know long, hot drives and cleaning my room with the window open. I know every song I have cried and loved and danced to. I know the rain from last year’s spring.
And when the spring blooms into summer, when rain cycles through the seasons, when all that’s left is all that’s changing, even as I find myself running from grief, I will still know.
GoldenR a tio
Special thanks to Claire Kase and her snake, Levi
DIRECTOR’S NOTE
As we celebrate 25 remarkable years of SHEI, I want to take a moment to acknowledge the incredible work that has come from our amazing members that have contributed to the art of fashion and storytelling in SHEI’s history. This anniversary issue, titled "Ouroboros," resonates deeply with me as I navigate my final year in college; a pivotal time filled with growth, self-discovery, and reflection.
The themes of rebirth and death resonate with me when I think about how SHEI has evolved over the years. Just like the magazine, I’m navigating my own journey of growth, reflecting on the habits and beliefs I’ve developed along the way. It’s interesting to see how people often drive themselves to the brink trying to escape societal cycles, only to find themselves thrown back into familiar patterns. Similarly, this cyclical nature mirrors what we see in fashion history, where styles emerge as bold acts of rebellion, only to become trends that get pushed back against again. My dad always used to say, “There’s nothing new under the sun,”, while we may find fresh takes on old ideas, the core lessons about human nature remain the same.
Bringing this concept to life has been a full-circle moment for me. I remember the excitement I felt when I was invited onto the fashion team after a previous rejection. It serves as a reminder that our journeys are often intertwined with cycles of failure and success.
I hope this issue inspired you to reflect on what "Ouroboros" means in your own life. May it encourage you to embrace the cycles of rebirth and growth that define us all.
