About Strike Magazine
Strike Magazine Gainesville embraces the idea that we are all inherently striking. Together, we aim to craft immersive experiences that transcend traditional boundaries, sparking vibrant engagement within the spheres of fashion, art and culture.
Founded in March 2018, Strike Magazine Gainesville marked the first expansion from its Tallahassee origins, growing rapidly to include 14 more campuses nationwide. Since then, we have grown to a staff of over 180 members per issue. Strike serves as a place of creativity and professional development for our passionate and driven staff. We take pride in striking Gainesville as the first student-led publication of our kind and, now, as the nation’s largest student-run fashion and culture magazine.
As editors, we are honored to lead a team that thrives on creativity, inclusivity and innovation. Each member contributes uniquely to the distinct identity of our chapter. As we continue to navigate new creative frontiers, we remain committed to furthering Strike Magazine Gainesville’s tradition of empowering our readers to think outside the box and explore new perspectives.
Strike out,
Sophia Johns, Heather Parrish & Rachel Frenchman
FITZ-HENLEY makeup JENA POORMAN, HAILEY GOLDSTEIN photographer GRACE BARNEY
Issue 13 unites contemporary worlds of fashion, creativity and culture in pursuit of a harmonious new vision. While honoring the professionalism and elegance laid by those who came before us, this issue strives to introduce fresh concepts and bold ideas, building on Strike’s established foundation.
With a strong focus on movement, Issue 13 dares to push the limits of conventional boundaries, reshaping the presentation of fashion and creativity. By challenging what typically fits into established categories, we invite our readers to indulge in the enduring beauty of art in its most transitory forms. Issue 13 is not just a continuation but a bold leap forward — an exploration of creative synergy that honors the past while propelling the future of fashion and art.
Sophia Johns Editor-in-Chief
FELICIAH
EXTERNAL
ASSISTANT EXTERNAL AFFAIRS
DIRECTOR
Caroline Rives
DIGITAL CONTENT DIRECTORS
Abigail Moretto
Molli Curtis
DIGITAL CONTENT ASSISTANTS
Arshan Falasiri
Brooklynn Quick
Brynn Koepke
Victoria Grant
FINANCE DIRECTORS
Caroline Udell
Jewel Russell
ASSISTANTS
Amber Dangelico
Drew Cohen
Sofia Sepielli
MARKETING DIRECTORS
Chloe Leib
Christina Mackey
Zachary Venezia ASSISTANTS
Ahmya Bullard
Brooke Seldes
Brooke Truffelman
Camryn Costolo
Hannah Sanchez
Hunter Monson
Jessica Ensel
Jordyn Bushman
Kaitlyn Masone
Kalina Pandelova
Kenzie Chase
Oliver Rodriguez
Olivia Huey
Reese Harper
Susy Mendez
MERCHANDISE DIRECTORS
Katie Liang
Sharon Bridgemohan ASSISTANTS
Joanna Wang
Katelyn Spohn
Tara Patel
Zeke Serrano
PUBLIC RELATIONS DIRECTORS
Gabrielle Ocasio
Jessica Velez
Katie Perez
ASSISTANTS
Abbey Schenker
Brenna Alderman
Delaney Dickson
Elizabeth Froimzon
Ella Goldfarb
Jasmyn Reid
Julia Strasius
Lauren Sachs
Marin Houser
River Koile
Sydney Kesselman
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
Sophia Johns
SALES DIRECTORS
Amina Khamitova
James Robertson
SALES ASSISTANTS
Ellie Alvis
Emma Haedrich
Emma Larson
SOCIAL MEDIA DIRECTORS
Audrey Baker
Carly Weinblatt
SOCIAL MEDIA ASSISTANTS
Angelina Eidson
Cora Acree
Daniella Milton
Ella Dang
Emma Stankos
Mia Chacon
Michelle Wager
Saanvi Prasad
BRAND AMBASSADOR DIRECTORS
Lexi Denowitz
Savannah Rude ASSISTANT DIRECTOR
Emma Valdeon
BRAND AMBASSADORS
Addison Gates
Agnessa Safovich
Aishu Kandukuru
Alexander Rashedi
Axaielle
Cazeau-Quinn
Carlos Alemany
Carly Wilson
Chris Webb
Cooper Neel
Elizaveta Ivanova
Ella Gibson
Farrah Levesque
Finley Schuurmans
Gabriella Scheiner
Hayden McPharlin
Jenna Benjamin
Juanita Echeverry
Lauren Dupoux
Layla Lee
Lina Filkin
London Harper
Mia Oklin
Paige Lorbiecki
Parthvi Shah
Peyton Richards
Raquel Alvarado
Sanjana Imandi
Veronica Ramos
EXTERNAL AFFAIRS DIRECTOR
Heather Parrish
EDITORIAL
ASSISTANT EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
Olivia Hansen
EDITORIAL DIRECTORS
Naina Chauhan
Olivia Evans
COPY EDITORS
Halima Attah
Hailey Indigo
CREATIVE
ASSISTANT CREATIVE DIRECTOR
Jesse Pickel
BEAUTY DIRECTORS
Hailey Goldstein
Jena Poorman
MAKEUP ARTISTS
Ava Anderson
Geovanna Berguin
Laasya Moparthy
Sasha Verma
HAIR STYLISTS
Christina Spindler
Jordon Miller
Lindsay Stagnitto
NAIL ARTIST
Claire Collier
CASTING DIRECTORS
Alexa Craig
Nicole Ballesteros
ASSISTANTS
Ellie Bender
Jessica Nitti
Kendall Lagana
Roma Khanna
Ryan Esteras Escobar
DESIGN DIRECTOR
Jackson Asbell
ASSITANT DIRECTOR
Rhythm Kumar
GRAPHIC DESIGNERS
Emma Morey
Hayli Balgobin
Jea Nace
Katie Liang
Keegan Hannan
Reed Mann
FILM DIRECTORS
Camila Celaya
Jaden Jerue
CREATIVE DIRECTOR
Rachel Frenchman
WRITERS
Allie Sinkovich
Autumn Johnstone
Francesca Jaques
Ginger Koehler
Laila Mayfield
Madison Ginsberg
McCall Horton
Melody Gu
Michael Angee
Rachel Mish
Ria Pai
Sofia Bravo
PHOTOGRAPHY DIRECTORS
Eden Hetzroni
Grace Barney PHOTOGRAPHERS
Annika Thiim
Cheyenne Band
Gabriella Childers
Leila Barket
Macy Phan
Madilyn Gemme
Mary Kate Farrell
Vanessa Yanes
PRODUCTION DIRECTORS
Ben Robinson
Cameron Relicke
Krista Kilburg
PRODUCTION ASSISTANTS
Colby Beech
Isabella Mandel
Jennifer Thaler
Kya Williams
Nick Rymarz
Presley Lomel
Sophie Brooks
STYLING DIRECTORS
Stephanie Goris
Tabi Higgins
STYLISTS
Amaia Morgan
Ava Powers
Camila Celaya
Corrine Speed
Georgia Harris
Hadley Susa
Isabelle Clark
Jon Loferski
Keegan Hannan
BOOKING COORDINATORS
Brooke Park
Nancy Pla
Fashion as fluid art: where balance and movement converge, harmonizing chaos and calm to capture the rhythm of creativity and cultural evolution. Through this dynamic flow, fashion redefines style as a timeless expression of art in motion.
Heels Can’t Cut Glass
I remember my mother
Her furrowed brow and gritted teeth
Scarlet sweat on the stairs
Trailing feminine footsteps
That never passed a certain point
Never reaching the top
I feel like her now Blisters splitting Cracking
Like the shards of her shattered car window
That sparkled like diamonds
In my six-year-old eyes
While my mother’s welled with tears
Because she knew
That glass can cut you
The sun peeks through a magnifying glass
Her blinding smile burning my skin
I can’t look up or I’ll lose my balance
But I know she’s there
Reminding me of the inevitable limits
Glittering above
Each step is easier than the last
As blood lathers my ankles
The little girl
Who tried on her mother’s shoes
Would be so proud
To be fitting into the golden shackles
She always dreamed of wearing
It’s a pity they don’t sparkle anymore
It’s a pity
Heels can’t cut glass
words MCCALL HORTON
I Hurt You Because I Love You
October, 1973
What a tragedy it is to love someone, knowing that they’re going to die.
That thought danced in my head the night I met Linda. Something about beginnings is easy — slipping in, exploiting their need for validation. With her, the time passed as quickly as the leaves change color in autumn — quiet, undetectable, inevitable.
I saw her first at the disco, sitting at the bar, denying the Manhattan from the guy beside her. That’s when I knew I wanted her. The way she made eye contact before rejecting him. Her posture was erect. Dark red lipstick stained the side of her glass. She was difficult to read, but I liked a challenge. It was more satisfying to see the independent ones whittled down to nothing but a cold body in my backseat.
I took my time that night. Women like her don’t fall into big brown eyes, but a few thoughtful questions, half-truths about family values and a humble mention of law school will make the walls crumble. I didn’t need her to love me. I needed her to feel comfortable. With comfort comes blindness to the blood-red flags they once so vehemently prided themselves on being able to identify.
I had to end it earlier than intended. Linda was like me in some ways, looking to hurt others before they hurt her. She began picking fights, trying to uncover infidelity. She was never sharp enough to discern my unfaithfulness… until it was too late. Driving through suburban streets, next to the hum of the engine and her breathing — a moment of clarity.
When it was done, the silence was even better. Her body, still warm, slumped against the seat as the smell of sweat and blood filled the air As I drove away with her lifelessness beside me, I could hear myself think. Her blood on my hands was the closest I’d ever felt to a woman. But even then, it left a familiar void. A hunger still gnawing at the edges, waiting to be fed again.
May, 1974
When I think of the summer of 1974, I think of air filled with moisture and political scandal. But mostly, I think of Donna. Under the disco light, her skin sparkled with spirit: an opportunity to take the life out of someone already so full of it.
Approaching the dance floor in long strides, I was ready to sweat. I matched her rhythm, gripping her waist just enough to excite her I could have gone home with her then, killed her even. But that would take the fun out of manipulating a manipulator.
The first few dates were filled with all kinds of questions. It took all my effort to cross-reference each deception; I couldn’t let her sense the callousness in my words. Nonetheless, in time, she began revealing herself. Donna saw the cracks in my character that should have told her to run. Instead, she spent her time trying to help me. Her touch became more delicate, her words more conscious.
After months of vulnerability and deceit, it was time to end things. Our nights usually ended back at her place. This time, it was late. She prepared our drinks, and we sat on the bed. There was comfort in the hand I placed on the back of her neck. Until it wrapped around, squeezing the air from her lungs.
Initially, she struggled. What a beautiful idiot — her mind slowed, alcohol blurring her reflexes. I felt the tendons strain beneath her skin, her pulse quickened against my fingertips. It was poetic, the way she had seemed strong and yet looked so weak. I remember thinking, this is what it feels like to take control.
Then her body went limp. All that life I had once admired looked sad and empty in the kitchen’s fluorescent hue. I closed her vacant eyes, leaned down and whispered, “I’m sorry you couldn’t save me.”
December, 1974
I hadn’t planned on Georgie. Unlike the others, she wasn’t filled with fantasies about independence or control. At first, I wondered if I’d made a mistake. Could I really break someone who was already broken? Georgie was softer, sipping on her Cherry Coke. I almost didn’t need to pretend with her. She was so desperate to find the good in me, clinging to every insincere word and lingering glance, as though they meant something real.
Georgie trusted me completely. Maybe that’s why it took so long. Within a month, I could have killed her a dozen times, but I kept biding time, waiting for her to slip up and show me that she wasn’t as pure as she seemed.
In the end, I almost didn’t go through with it. It was a cold night by the fire. She sat beside me, warming her hands in mine. For a moment, I wondered what it would be like to leave her alive. But, I knew I would one day disappoint Georgie. So, on that frozen night, I had no option. Coming home from dinner, she turned up the radio, allowing Elton John’s “Cold Heart” to wrap us like a blanket. From the fire, I led her to the bedroom, my hand resting on her back. She turned to me with those wide, innocent eyes, and I kissed her softly.
It was quiet when I did it. Just the sound of her breath catching, her body struggling against mine. She didn’t fight like the others. I almost thought she might just… let go.
When it was over, I stood there, waiting for the silence to feel freeing. This time, I knew why it felt different. This time, the kill was not for me. It was for her. Kissing her cheek, I reminded Georgie that it was never her fault. I hurt her because I loved her.
October, 1980
When the prosecution asked if I felt remorse, I didn’t know how to answer.
I did them a favor, really. It’s not easy living in this world, constantly drowning in the same monotonous cycle of hope and disappointment, love and loss. Isn’t it almost kinder this way? How else would they learn what true love means? If I could speak to them now, I would tell them that they’re better off. They were broken long before I found them; I just dared to snap them in two.
The silence that comes after is the only proof I need. It’s not just the absence of their voices or the music — it’s the absence of everything. No more expectations or lies. Just silence.
What a relief it is to end love, knowing there’s nothing left to destroy.
JOSIAH CASTILLO photography
GRACE BARNEY
BARNEY
Beyond the Binary
Written in the narrow margins of my well-loved books lie secrets about my identity. Messy handwritten notes and circles around adjectives that I longed for people to use to describe me. Angular. Elegant. Assertive. Donna Tartt’s “The Secret History” constantly lingered in the back of my head — specifically any time her character Francis Abernathy was depicted in a scene. His vulnerable yet charmingly sinister nature drew me in, but his epicene looks and flamboyant character kept me detained for what seemed like centuries.
The longing to look and act like the characters in my novels didn’t make me any different from anyone else, other than the fact that these characters were both men and women. I became attuned to the various attempts at media representation for non-binary people. Most pieces of media depicted stereotypical masculine lesbians and feminine gay men, which placed me in a box. They demanded control of what I could and could not be. I associated negative feelings with binding my chest while wearing a dress, or putting on vibrant makeup while wearing a suit — which was all I wanted to do.
I never saw a non-binary person in a TV show until I watched “Atypical,” starring Brigette Lundy-Paine, during the summer of 2020. LundyPaine’s confident nature sparked something in me, but under no circumstances could I demonstrate the tenacity needed to look as they did. Anything outside the binary was seemingly unattainable for me. I valued others’ opinions over my own. I remember sitting in front of my living room TV when my mother asked me if Lundy-Paine was “a boy or a girl.” It was not a question of genuine curiosity, but a mocking of what people considered “out of the ordinary.” I was frozen by the fear of judgment, so I just shrugged. I would later find that it was not just her insensitive reaction to someone being so willingly divergent, but quite literally everyone’s.
Classmates, family members and church folk all asked the same questions, but I never said anything I meant. Their comments isolated me. Only in the depths of my mind and my journals could I acknowledge the fact that Lundy-Paine was living my dream.
So, suppressing my feelings for years, I dressed entirely for the male gaze. Long brown hair, always flowing behind me. Nails grown out, painted with shades of pinks and greens. Short skirts that let my legs lie out in the open. As I desperately tried to walk normally in my Tory Burch sandals, I caught peoples’ glances in my school’s hallways. I despised the way they made me feel, and I longed to be content in who I was. I sought significance in male attention. It was like dirt under my nails, except the dirt was ineradicable. Always there, taunting me. Warning me that, in order to be respected, I had to dress like all the other girls. I fell short to conformity.
I looked at myself in my mirror every morning before leaving for school, but all I could see was a fake, altered version of myself. I was born a girl, so I had to dress like one.
Though I could not ignore how constantly dressing feminine exhausted me. I’d come home from school wondering why I felt like an outsider. I wondered if this was normal for everyone else — if they too wished they were different than who they looked like.
My emotions became more intense. Soon, the low drum of my heart stutter began to ripple red throughout my whole body. I’d break down occasionally, usually after examining my feminine face and figure in the mirror. Yet, after each breakdown, I began to experience a new emotion: guilt. I realized the guilt wasn’t because the media taught me to dress a certain way. It was because I was listening to them, overriding my own opinions about myself. To resolve this guilt, I made minuscule rebellions. Slowly, I started to look in the mirror and see a real version of myself. I later spent more years dressing under the influence of the male gaze and many more dressing less binary. And as a result, there came a point that when I stopped in the mirror before school, I no longer saw a faux version of myself. I saw a human trying to enjoy life the best they could. I realized that I was the odd one out in a plethora of people, not because my shoes didn’t fit quite right, but because I was trying so desperately to fit in.
Finally, I cut my long, beautiful hair and dyed it red. I added more spike to my eyeliner. I started every morning with a question of, “How does this outfit make me feel?” I no longer sought admiration from men because I recognized there was no point — they might never get the image they want from me, and that’s okay.
Now, I dress for my comfort only. I wear suits and flatten my chest — the more androgynous the better. I feel free in my newfound charisma, a heavy contrast with what I used to be and represent. A feather-light feeling washes over me as I confront the mirror. I grew into myself. I dress with pride.
Looking back, it would have saved me so much time if I had realized that dressing according to who I was, was enough. After years of reflection, I realized fashion is not about the clothes you wear or how you style your hair. It’s a statement. It’s an exhibition of your personality. What it truly takes to be confident in who you are and what you show others is the challenging part. Putting yourself out there despite social dissent is what frightens us all. Yet, it’s a tussle worth fighting for.
words AUTUMN JOHNSTON
Bare and bold, we embrace authenticity through art and open expression. Unveiled truths invite us into a journey of raw, honest connections, celebrating vulnerability in its purest form.
Caught Between Tides
The Belly of the Whale
I’m chasing it, this gnawing, cavernous hole in my heart: Love.
I know it exists, I know because I exist and I see it all around me.
Yet it eludes my grasp, forever out of reach.
The nervous laughter, longing gazes, squeals of excitement or nerves or -
God
I want my stomach to be flipped upside down, shredded to pieces with joy.
I want someone to know my favorite coffee creamer.
I don’t even like coffee, but I want them to remember my favorite popcorn flavor or how I drizzle olive oil on my ice cream.
What does it feel like to be in the cave of the beast?
The belly of the whale?
To be thrown in, head underwater but not an ounce of fear because your person is right there next to you, so what would you have to fear?
How does it feel to be wrapped in love? To wear it like a second skin?
I walk into the bar, scanning the crowd.
My best friend and her boyfriend are in the corner. They are in the belly.
I keep walking, eyes darting, hunting.
I lock eyes with a guy across the room and a chill runs down my spine.
He looks like he would remember my favorite coffee creamer.
I smile, sending out my signal,
But he walks away, and my stomach comes crashing down.
I shake it off, reset and keep my eyes moving.
I’m here for the hunt.
I’m here to find that glimmer in someone’s eye that says, “It’s me.”
Each glance feels like the start of a sentence, unfinished. And I’m desperate to grab the pen and finish the story myself.
“It’ll come when you least expect it.”
But I sit watching the sand escape the hourglass, the clock ticking as I expect it more and more.
The sun rises with my expectation and, if I were to come to my senses, there would be no day.
So I keep searching, refusing to sit still.
I think Love is something I’ll keep dreaming of; I’ll make it happen to me.
It will be good.
Staying Afloat
I think it’s a deep, cavernous hole in my heart: Love.
I know it exists. I know because I see it all around me.
But I keep my hands by my side, unwilling to reach out and look for it.
It’s easy to love — the small kind.
I wash my roommate’s dishes when his mind is heavy, Buy him hazelnut coffee creamer before he runs out. I text my family members happy birthday, just past midnight.
Love like that is simple, soft.
It’s everywhere.
But Love is different.
Love is messy, unpredictable.
It’s an uncharted mission.
If the sea is calm with just me, why would I throw myself into the storm?
I stood in the corner of the bar, lost at sea, flashing red lights for my rescue.
My roommate talked to someone while I watched from a distance.
I looked around and locked eyes with a girl.
For a fleeting moment, the world stopped, But I tasted salt in the air, And I knew neither of us could swim.
I looked away and walked out of the bar before the moment took hold.
The lights behind me oscillated faster, But I stayed moving.
Her smile was burned into my eyelids, lingering. The air was gone from my lungs,
But my legs knew where to go.
Away from the shore and back to safety.
I turned up to the moon, in hope that it would replace her image.
The inside of my nose burned,
And it reminded me that I can never go back to sea.
I think Love only finds you if you’re thinking of it, So my mind prepared to forget the topic for eternity. I’ll patch the holes in my heart myself and try to feel full.
I think Love is something I’ll forget, something I’ll learn to live without.
I will be fine. I will be good.
words SOFIA BRAVO
Fragments of Her
SCENE
1 : PROM. CAR - DAY
In her beat-up Subaru, she screams into the scratchy speakers.
HER
(dejected tone, leaving a beat between sentences) Can you just come? I don’t want to beg. I’m alone here, and today’s supposed to matter. I can’t even zip up my dress. Just show up for me, for once. Choose me.
HIM
(words heavy, loud and substantial)
You’re acting desperate. I said I’m trying, but it’s not going to happen. I’ll meet you there. Stop making this a bigger deal than it is.
NARRATOR: With his “no,” she loses her dignity. When she was seven years old, she would hide in colorful classrooms and offices during kickball. Her fear of not being chosen for a team was all-consuming, so much so that she stayed inside and counted the holes in the ceiling. She would wait for her friends to come out, watching for the look of accomplishment on their faces — a feeling she wondered if she would ever experience herself. Ten years later, she found herself counting the same holes, the ones that now grazed the headliner of her childhood SUV — the one that was hers now. She knew herself as confident and autonomous, and how she burned for him made her question that. With his “no,” she lost her head.
SCENE 2 : MARI’S BIRTHDAY. PATIO - NIGHT
The patio lights are kaleidoscopic, and indistinct pop music is twisting around her ears. He looks at her with contempt.
HIM
Fix your top. Don’t embarrass yourself.
HER
This is just what I look like. It’s a pool party.
HIM
Do you even care about us? Or are you just here for the other guys? Say it, and I’ll go. You’re making a scene.
NARRATOR: His tone relinquishes her confidence. With his criticism of her biggest insecurity, she was brought back to 5th grade, - when a boy first told her “it’s time to wear a bra.” Although she now stood taller and had clearer skin, the shame lingered. His words take something from her. This time, he doesn’t just exhaust her shoulders; he rips them off her body, ligament by ligament. He consumes her pain, reshaping it to feed his own needs, as if her suffering is food for his soul.
SCENE 3 : VALENTINE’S DAY. HER BEDROOM - SUNSET
She lies, her stomach down on her sparkly sheets. She’s relaxed, her feet crossed and moving carelessly in the air. He’s upset. He says words so cutting, thick and unprompted that she gasps. He aims for a spot in her heart that’s already raw.
HIM
(voice heavy with accusation) You treat me like your mom treats your dad.
NARRATOR: The words hang in the air; she thinks about crying or yelling, but that would just prove his point. In the first week of their relationship, he asked to come to her house, mentioning he’d never been. She laughed nervously, steering the conversation elsewhere, but he wouldn’t let it go. Her parents’ relationship lingered behind her every choice. She despised how they spoke to each other, the venom in their words. She swore never to become them, to treat love like it’s fragile, like it might shatter under the weight of carelessness. But hearing him say it now, like this, with that deliberate, almost casual sting, she feels that he validates every single fear of hers. She wonders if he is being truthful or evil - although both options make her want to scratch out of her skin. His cruel twisting of her once trusted words takes her trust away entirely. With her trust, he takes her heart.
SCENE 4 : HER BIRTHDAY. POOL - MIDNIGHT
She floats in the water, her ears dipping in and out, the laughter of her friends swelling and receding around her gently. Her birthday is her favorite day of the year. She loves attention. But he taps her out, drawing her back to reality.
HIM (voice slurred, intense, seems well-meaning) You’re perfect. You can’t ever leave me.
NARRATOR: When she was 11 years old, she had a friend named Jane. Jane yanked her hair, stole her crayons and mocked her mismatched socks. But Jane also told her she was her only friend, and that was enough. Guilt held her there, anchored, convincing her to stay. Nearly a decade later, she found Jane again, reincarnated through her boyfriend. So he takes the last thing she has, her independence. He cuts off her legs.
THE END. CREDITS.
PROD. NOTE ON CREDIT REEL: She has now been reduced to nothing but grains of sand. As she sits up, the weight of her choices settle in — she has allowed him to tear her apart, piece by piece. He eroded her bare. words FRANCESCA JAQUES
JORDON
Double Consciousness
The suit didn’t just drape over my shoulders — it settled with a heaviness. It wasn’t the neatly pressed fabric or crisp lines, but the invisible burden stitched into it. One made of centuries of expectations and doubts, a presumptive notion of success that wasn’t mine to claim. As a woman of color stepping into the business world, I realized I wasn’t just dressing for the part. I was carrying the weight of a narrative that had long been decided without me.
Every classroom, every networking event, every corporate hallway holds echoes of double consciousness. Du Bois theorized it: A constant, unshakable awareness that you’re not just seen for your work, your intellect, your potential. Rather, you are examined through a lens, a hegemonic filter that distorts you, that shifts your self-perception before you even get a chance to define it yourself. In the business world, where confidence is currency, this distortion can be devastating.
The weight of the suit grows heavier with each interaction. I find myself constantly adjusting — not just my blazer or my posture, but my entire demeanor. This adjustment comes almost too naturally after constantly navigating situations where I am both hyper-visible and invisible all at once. In meetings and interviews, I catch myself fidgeting with my sleeves, trying to mold into the version of myself that I think they want to see. I feel the heavy gaze of my supervisors and mentors settle on me. Double consciousness seeps into these moments, forcing me to see myself through their critical eyes. Each glance reminds me that my role in the business field is as much about proving I belong as it is about the work I do, all while trying not to lose my core identity.
Each time I step into a meeting room, I hesitate. I second-guess myself: Am I being too assertive, or not assertive enough? Will they see me as ambitious or abrasive? Competent or simply lucky? The weight of societal expectations weaves itself into every move, making me more careful, more calculated, more aware of every gesture or word I make. But this awareness comes at a cost. It fragments my identity. Who am I if I’m always looking at myself through someone else’s lens? My sense of self splinters, and pieces of me spread thin as I try to embody what I think they want to see. Am I the ambitious student, the confident professional, the advocate for women of color? Or am I just a reflection of what they expect me to be, struggling to fit a mold that was never designed for me?
The suit, heavy with expectations, morphs into something beyond just an article of clothing — it is the embodiment of the double consciousness I carry. The weight may not lift easily, and the lens may never fully disappear, but I’m learning to tailor the suit to fit my own vision. Yet, I can’t deny the pressure that comes with every interaction. I’m constantly hyper-aware of how I’m being perceived — whether my words are landing as assertive or overconfident, whether my competence is questioned or accepted. The smallest gestures, even the way I hold myself, feel scrutinized. This pressure builds, making me feel like I’m never quite fitting into the mold that’s expected.
Loosening the threads of doubt doesn’t mean the extreme vigilance fades, but it means finding moments where I trust that I belong. Perhaps true empowerment isn’t about shaking off the suit, but learning how to navigate this space with both confidence and self-awareness, making room for my own silhouette to emerge.
words MELODY GU
The Casual Fear of Closeness
There’s a casual fear in closeness, In letting someone in.
Raw, stripped bare, the truth plain and harsh
Waiting, trembling, to be enough or not at all.
There’s a casual fear in closeness,
In leaving the wild moors of freedom
What of passions, exhilarations?
The beauty in uncertainty, In not knowing where you stand.
Some crave more than just a soft touch
Warmth in bed, but not for long.
The moon’s sick smile on the midnight journey
Back, alone.
It’s fine, casual.
But if they’re not the one, who is?
There’s a casual fear in closeness.
Some so desperate they hide and change, Chameleons, true selves rarely known
Morphed into the dreams of their prey
For one golden moment, and the novelty fades.
There’s a casual fear in closeness.
Acceptance, our greatest motivator In love and life alike
Perhaps the fear of rejection Is that which keeps us hiding
From the beauty of what could be.
There’s a casual fear in closeness.
The sun and moon dance each day
An eternal push and pull
They’re us, you know.
Cursed to see but never touch
There’s a casual fear in closeness.
We cannot hide from closeness,
The fear of being known.
What if they leave,
When they see who we are?
But there is joy to be found
Friends and lovers, sparks in the dark
Burning forever or not at all,
There is no fear in closeness.
We cannot hide from closeness, Running from our fates.
So go and find that deeper truth, Etched on shining skin.
We’re designed to love; it’s borne to us
There is no fear in closeness.
words HAILEY INDIGO
Transparency transcends materiality; it’s about revealing what lies beneath, the interplay between presence and absence, and the intimate push and pull between visible and hidden truths.
My Pedestal of Perfection
My mother never pressured her eldest daughter to shoot for the moon because she didn’t have to. For her eldest daughter, the moon was the only option.
My intrinsic expectations for myself have long been sky high, perched atop a pretty little pedestal in my head. And in my brain, the pedestal stands in line with the moon, some 230,000 miles above Earth’s surface.
But sometimes my pretty little pedestal shakes, just a little bit.
It shakes at age nine, my hands trembling. I clutch the microphone as the second verse to the Mary Poppins theme “Chim Chim Cher-ee” hangs half-finished in the theater air. My face flushes from pink to red. I hadn’t intended for my voice to crack, nor for a subsequent lyrical blank, but the anxiety of a solo performance, coupled with the not-sosubtle realization of my subpar vocals cloaked me in fear. Until that moment, Broadway felt like a shiny, near-future reality, so long as I aced my onstage debut. With one voice crack, the dream crashed down.
So I tucked away my dream of Broadway stardom, tidily. Without a clear, one-way path to musical success, I wanted nothing to do with musical theater. If I wasn’t going to be perfect, then I didn’t see a point in trying.
My mother would often refer to the space in my brain that brewed concoctions of perfection as “Lai-la Land,” a clever pun that applied my name, Laila, to the dreamlike state, “la-la land.” I never quite understood if it was a nickname that harbored love or loathing. Perhaps a little bit of both?
I’m in Lai-la Land on the cross-country course at 16, dazed by my demotion to junior varsity. I was more aware than anyone that my average finishing times weren’t quite Division 1 athletic material. However, something about a demotion had me wishing I ran faster, harder and longer during our daily morning practices. I was already clocking a maximum of six hours of sleep at night, but the elusive bottom-seed varsity spot was in reach. I had it at the beginning of the season. I just needed to work a little harder, that’s all.
And I worked hard. I ran every single morning, and any post-dawn wake-up stung me with intense guilt. Running became non-negotiable. I sacrificed my time, my friendships, my health — all for the sake of that final spot. On the last meet of the season, I finally stood on the starting line alongside the faster girls. I don’t remember much of the actual race, though. I ran so fast I almost fainted.
For much of my life, my mother provided me with inverted advice, recommending I lower my expectations, begging that I take a step down from the flourishing, ever-expansive (and completely invisible) pedestal of perfection I housed in my mind. Many perfectionists will cite their parents as a key contributor to their habits, only showering their children with praise if they succeeded. I still don’t know exactly what spawned my own perfectionistic qualities. Perhaps it was a classic case of eldest daughter syndrome, a self-sabotaging superiority complex or maybe just a chronic feeling that I wouldn’t ever be good enough at anything. Whatever it was, it wasn’t my mother.
My mother was the only parent on the sidelines who yelled for her daughter to not push herself too hard on the cross-country course. Perhaps she didn’t want to deal with her daughter’s relatively inevitable finish line faint. Or maybe she noticed the hearty breakfast her daughter skipped in the name of being “lighter on her feet.” She had a knack for noticing.
My mother would remind me to take a seat when I told her that my feet ached in the stilettos I’d been standing in for hours at a high school service conference I cared very little about. She would advise I take a nap the afternoon after I had been up in the wee hours of the night editing an article. And she would practically beg for me to spend just ten more minutes catching up in the kitchen before I holed up in my bedroom for the evening, off to perfect another assignment. I ignored her advice.
I think of her precautions now as I lie cradled in the weeks-unwashed sheets of my dorm bed. It’s 2 a.m., my head pounds, and I can feel my internal pedestal of perfection crumbling with every thump. I usually attempt to put the pieces back together, sacrificing another night of sleep to do something that makes me feel semi-productive. I’m struggling to keep my eyes open long enough to wash off my makeup and pull the fragments of Lai-la Land back together. I hopelessly resolve to sleep it off. Mascara-ridden tears leak onto my pillow, born from 3,000 new classmates and six new courses to study for and five nights out a week and one less parent than I need. It’s been, what, a month in college?
I call my mom in the morning, my throat weak from a lingering cold. I tell her about college. She tells me to take the day off. It’s the perfect response.
words LAILA MAYFIELD
The Spectacle of a Jaded Future
Vulnerability: I ask myself if the people occupying my 35 floors can ever really display this. They throw barricades on their thoughts and emotions; they create spectacle to compensate for their lack of connection. As a beacon of man’s triumphs, a building of my grandiose nature bows to none.
A man pensively studied the new home of his wife, his daughter and himself. He thought, “Someone ought to put blinds on this whole damn building,” and I wondered, Why would someone do that? Why would someone shield their inner life from the outer world? He lived on the 11th floor, in the third unit. Unit 1103.
If one of the many people passing by were to wonder about all the things that happened past my glass-ornamented facade, ironically, no one would fully know the truth. With curtains covering their windows, residents allowed mere shadows of their reality to shine through. With starry eyes peering through my windows, one would be met with an almost robotic defense from reality in the form of white shades. Muffled projections of who they were is all one could see.
The family in unit 1103 cozily settled into the methodically manicured marvel that was their living room. They unpacked their technology and placed it in the exact space as the families above, next to and beneath them all mirrored. There was comfort in their conformity, and as the family unknowingly succumbed to, there was comfort in their hiding.
The family sleuthed their way into the society built through my halls, steadily and comfortably with little afterthought. Their neighbors did the same as them, fitting the molds of what they were told they should be, rather than what they wished to be.
What is it that they wished to be?
Within my white, industrial, borderline hospital-like walls, loud silence draped over the passageways. Stretching across the building, not a touch of color. The only palette was monochromatic white, reflecting the sunlight peeking through the 11 feet by 5 feet framed windows. Avoidant and plain, the delicacy of contemporary living was devoid of character.
Many waltzed through the mighty atrium located on the first floor of my structure, boasting one of the busiest areas of the city. There was bustling life within me, a man-made entity. “A Representation of Human Advancement!” the billboards screamed down the highway as you closed in on our once-small town. I wondered if sacrificing the charm the people had, the live music or the singing and dancing on the streets for the magnitude of our heights was worth it. Was it truly worth it?
The main street was once filled with these things. Lovers of art, families with touching ways of showing each other gratitude and the feeling that these moments were emblematic of the times they shared. “Notice: **** Corporation will begin building in 31 days, this street will be used for advancement and building…,” read the signs when my construction began. I wondered if advancement in one way detracted from advancement in the other — if the gain of one thing was worth the loss of many others.
As the family looked at their stiff curtains, proud they could present a facade that covered the light from coming in, they relished in the ability to have shade from the world around them. Beneath me, and beneath my inhabitants, remained shadows of an unpolished past. They shielded themselves from the possibility of anything unconventionally raw and delightful.
People spectating the infinite web of connected stories on the ground of the city could meet on the roof, and with a fleeting sense of bloated godliness, they were separated from the general populace. Neverending and brutal, my inhabitants continued their charade of long days in an infinite mess of arbitrary bounds and expectations. They had not fully realized their separation from others had lent them to be artisans of an overly edited life.
I wondered how the city they loved became nothing but a shell, a tourist trap filled with genius con men. In ways I wished my construction had never begun.
The family never did open their curtains. They remained unaware of what that space represented well before they arrived, and they never ventured to learn.
words MICHAEL ANGEE
Featuring cover model Feliciah Fitz-Henley, Archive embodies our vision for Issue 13 — merging creativity and various art forms into a harmonious work of balance and movement.
Always for You
Two bodies lying in the dead of night. The ebonies of your eyes are very still in this spherical rotation. So certain of the realities and err of our being. Sable meets indigo and you ask: “What do you like about yourself?” The question condenses the space between us. My mind becomes a tunnel of tranquility and silence. The shivers that cascade through me place my mind, soul and body into an entity of vacancy.
Why do I feel nothing when this question of morality and soul is written on your fingertips like an oath?
It is not that I hate these brittle arms that cling too tightly to water and too loosely to blood. Or the thighs that serve as a haven and an intimate hell. All love the rasp of a woman’s tenure as it illustrates a feminine facade. And yet, all find the extinction of my voice at dawn uncircumstantial. A laugh that is so veritable and dynamic gathers both disciplines and demons.
Indigo meets two sides of the same coin. A stranger that drifts through the night, but the first we meet.
To stare into the ego is to stare into the flame. To praise and degrade. To worship and hate. I transcend through what others call space and time. I fall through the existence of myself. I descend. Two, four, six, nine. A devil reflected in this mirror on the wall.
I love how my brain tears itself in two for the sanctity of you. How the dirt, blood and disgust of a world drowning in itself clings under my nails.
How I can pillage and destroy my temple for this soul’s sake. Always and forever for you.
You ask me what I love that does not serve you. Indigo meets indigo. There’s nothing. Utterly nothing. Besides you.
words ALLIE SINKOVICH
Beach GNV
Turkey Creek Golf Course
Andrea Torres
Andy Hagen
Anthony Iannazzone
Armand Raichandani
Ava Parker
Colton Veres
Daisy Armagost
Delaney Craig
Ethan Le
Feliciah Fitz-Henley
Garrett Perry
Gavin Palasigue
Jessica Charles
Josiah Castillo
Journey Gordon
Kaitlyn Nonog
Kaylee Griffin
McKenna Chase
Mihika Kasi
Nicholaus Vinkle
Nya Vidal
Rebecca Speas
Sara Gudovic
Sofia Fenix
Timothy Addie
Willow Sinkus-Blackburn
Yael Bister-Simancas
Yasmine Welch
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