Ifeelmyself Anthea [2021] May 2026

By the end of the month, Anthea had quit her job, rented a tiny studio with paint-stained floors, and started a series of portraits called Ifeelmyself . They were not flattering or polished. They were honest—double chins, laughter lines, hands reaching for something invisible.

She wrote about the ache in her chest when she passed the abandoned theater where she’d dreamed of acting as a teen. She wrote about the way her fingers itched to paint in violent, messy strokes instead of aligning logos to invisible grids. She wrote the truth she’d buried under “practicality”: I feel myself only when I’m falling—into music, into silence, into the unknown shape of my own wanting. ifeelmyself anthea

That night, Anthea did something terrifying. She pushed her coffee table aside, turned on a song that made her ribs ache, and danced not for exercise, not for performance, but to feel herself . Her elbows were wild. Her hair came loose. She laughed—a cracked, real sound. By the end of the month, Anthea had

She sent a photo of her shadow mid-spin back to the website. Subject line: Anthea, still falling. She wrote about the ache in her chest