BOSTON STRIPPED DOWN ISSUE
A LETTER FROM THE EDITOR NAOMI COHEN
Well, here it is—my fourth and final letter from the editor. I’ve been putting this off, not because I didn’t have anything to say, but because I had too much. Because saying goodbye to Strike still doesn’t feel real.
I started out with Strike as a team member creating shoot concepts. I fell in love with the community, with the process, with the people. I wanted a hand in all of it—the creative direction, the writing, the design. Getting to look back on everything I’ve touched, every piece I’ve helped shape, is something I will always cherish.
Over time, Strike became so much more than an extracurricular. It became the place where I learned to lead, to trust my instincts, and to collaborate with people who pushed me creatively. This role shaped who I am, and I’m endlessly grateful for the space Strike gave me to experiment, to take risks, to create, and to learn by doing.
This issue feels like the perfect ending. At its core, Stripped Down is about what remains when everything else is peeled back. It’s an exploration of vulnerability—not just in the emotional sense, but in the visual, conceptual, and structural. It explores what’s raw, what’s real, what’s usually left unsaid or unseen. It asks what happens when we stop performing and start simply being. Every page of this issue holds so much care, from the concepts to the execution, and I couldn’t be prouder of how this team showed up for it.
Leaving Strike is bittersweet. It breaks my heart to say goodbye, but I’m so proud of the community I’ve helped build and the work we’ve created. This team is passionate, talented, and so full of heart.
That’s been the most meaningful part of all this: the people. Realizing that what I love most about Strike was never just mine. It belongs to all of us. Watching others care for it the way I have—pouring in their energy, their ideas, their vision—has made stepping away a little easier. I know I’m leaving this in the best of hands, from longtime staff who’ve grown with Strike to first-timers who dove in headfirst. Grace and Capri, I believe in you completely. I can’t wait to see where you take this.
So to my Strike family: thank you. Thank you for trusting me to lead you, thank you for bringing excitement and passion to every project, thank you for making this community the highlight of my college experience. I’ll miss you more than I can say.
Strike out,
LETTERS FROM THE EDITORIAL ASSISTANTS
GRACE PISCIOTTA
Issue 07 marks my third semester at Strike, and it still manages to feel as fresh and exciting as when I first started. Each new issue brings a wave of new ideas, challenges, and a team that somehow always finds a way to raise the bar.
Stripped Down is exactly what it sounds like: a closer look, a peeling back. 07 explores identity in all its layers—what we show, what we hide, and everything in between. Getting to help shape this narrative has been such a rewarding part of my time at Strike, and it’s pushed me to think more deeply about the kind of work I want to make, and why.
I’ve been lucky enough to try on a lot of different hats here—design, production, writing, planning—and each one has taught me something new. Even more than the creative work, though, it’s the people who’ve made this experience what it is. I’ve met some incredible minds this semester, and I’m excited to continue building with them.
Thank you to Naomi, for leading with such clarity and heart—and for trusting Capri and I to help carry your vision forward. You’ve set a standard we’re proud to follow.
We hope you enjoy the issue. We’re really proud of it.
CAPRI BOLD
Working alongside Grace and Naomi this semester has been an incredibly eye-opening experience. I am grateful to be a part of this team and to have had the opportunity to share ideas with other creatives.
My first time hearing about Strike was through a friend of mine at the Tallahassee chapter, and when I found that there was a Boston branch, I immediately knew I had to get involved in any way I could. What drew me in was the strong sense of community that surrounds this process, with everyone working together on a project they truly feel passionate about.
Boston is such a unique city filled with young people, and I feel that our branch of Strike reflects our community beautifully. With contributions from so many schools, Strike has also become a great way to network in the area and meet others who have the same interests. Since my first photoshoot with Strike last semester, I’ve learned so much and have been able to meet so many amazing people through the process. Looking back on this semester, I can say that issue seven has been equally rewarding as it has been motivating.
Thank you, Naomi, for putting your trust in me and Grace. I am super excited and optimistic for the coming semesters.
ABOUT THE ISSUE
We started with a question: what’s left when everything extra is taken away? What happens when we peel back layers—of style, identity, performance, routine—and sit with what remains? Stripped Down explores those moments of exposure, transition, and transformation. Sometimes quiet, sometimes messy, sometimes unexpectedly tender.
Across photos, interviews, and articles, Stripped Down invites us to look more closely at the in-between spaces—where something is in the process of becoming or undoing. Where intimacy can be found in repetition, vulnerability in routine, clarity in interruption.
To be stripped down isn’t just about revealing what’s underneath. It’s about making room for what we don’t always let show. It’s about resisting the urge to fill every gap. It’s about pausing long enough to notice what’s already there.
Exposed unfolds in soft daylight— white robes, white clothes, and the steady rhythm of laundry on a line. It feels quiet, but hanging among the linens is something more pointed: red underwear, stark against the rest. This shoot lingers in that contrast, where domestic ritual meets something more intimate. It’s stripped down, not just in what’s shown, but in how it’s shown—controlled, intentional, and a little off.
Exposure Therapy
Rachel Zhong
I would wake up from a dream on a midsummer night at 4 a.m., eyes still half-closed, realizing my right hand was on my left arm, scratching. This addict-like behavior never had a clear beginning or ending in my memory. But I always remembered the morning after, when I saw the red, dry, and scaly patches blooming across my arm, as I put on a jacket in the 80-degree heatwave.
Eczema had been with me every summer for as long as I could remember, so long that I had grown accustomed to its continuous, circular return. The itch triggers the scratch, the scratch breaks the skin, and the skin turns red before healing into a thickened layer. There are no clear signs of when the cycle begins or ends—I just know it always comes with summer. Yet my wardrobe doesn’t transition much with the seasonal change.
Occasionally a t-shirt, usually long pants—this was me in most photos taken from June to August. Garments felt like a shell, shielding not just my skin from the heat and humidity but shielding others’ eyes from it, too. If I couldn’t see the damage, I could pretend it wasn’t there and maybe forget the itch. If other people couldn’t see the inflamed skin, they wouldn’t ask questions or look at me with disgust—and I wouldn’t have to explain this chronic skin condition called “atopic dermatitis.”
The moment the temperature dropped enough for long sleeves, the itch would quietly disappear before I could notice. For nine months, I would live in relative comfort, my eczema tucked away under layers of clothes.
I tried to fix it – the creams, the hospital visits that left me feeling more drained than healed – but nothing ever promised permanence. After a while, the effort became more of a burden than the condition itself. It was easier to let it exist quietly under my sleeves, something I only had to face for three months a year—a seasonal burden I had learned to live around.
Just when I thought I had mastered the cycle, eczema reminded me that no pattern could contain it, no matter how many layers I hid behind.
That summer didn’t seem to end. The heatwave stretched into September, and the redness crept across my arms, thighs, and face. The insufferable itch outgrew my clothes, warning me that I could no longer hide it.
This flare-up was the worst yet—unprecedented and relentless. My skin cracked open along the creases of my arms and legs, the wounds raw, weeping, and bleeding. I couldn’t sleep through the night without waking up to blood on the sheets or the dull sting of skin rubbed raw from unconscious scratching. Even a light sweat made everything burn.
Still, the hardest part wasn’t always the pain – it was the way it made me feel like a stranger inside my own body. I avoided mirrors, not ready to confront the skin that had once been smooth and bright. I skipped Saturday nights out—nights I never would’ve missed before—not because I wanted to be alone, but because it felt safer to hide than to be seen flaking, scabbing, healing, and repeating. It wasn’t just a physical condition. It was a battlefield for shame and control, a struggle between wanting to be invisible and desperately needing comfort.
“But Rachel, have you imagined what summer would feel like without itches and fear of exposing your skin?” someone I loved once asked. For the first time, I allowed myself to imagine a summer I belonged to—like everyone else.
It was ironic. I found freedom in having my skin covered on a sun-drenched afternoon while others lived through summer with the freedom of skin exposed, feeling nature through warmth and grass. But I hadn’t been born to the ease of exposure.
Hiding had been comfortable only because it was effortless. But healing, I’ve learned, begins with discomfort. It starts with small exposures: letting sunlight touch my skin, allowing others to learn about my condition through me, and trying treatments—even if they help only for a moment.
I still reach for long sleeves sometimes. But now, it’s a choice, not a hiding place. And that, to me, is a quiet kind of freedom.
Creative Direction: Naomi Cohen
Creative Support: Capri Bold, Ashley Braren
Models: Valeria Cavagliano, Jaden Bridges
Photography: Pablo González, Lucas De Oliveira, Maria Dikman
Videography: Tyler Hom, Rachel Solomon
Style: Angelina Taramona, Hanna-Elisa Böhnisch
Beauty: Sarah-Eve Gazitt, Maria Fischer
Social Media: Tracianna Walcott, Kayla Baltazar
Editorial Design: Naomi Cohen
Unmasked documents a drag queen as she transitions out of drag, moving from full glam to bare face, from performance to something more personal. Shot as a visual sequence and paired with an interview, the shoot captures the quiet moments of transformation—where identity isn’t fixed, but shifting. It’s not just about what’s removed, but what remains.
E’Claire
Carrion
Interviewed
by
Esmeralda Moran
What’s the story behind your drag name?
My drag name is E’Claire Carrion. I am a very big marketing person, so I wanted my actual name and my drag name to be very, very similar. And they are. I kept my last name just because my cousin was on Drag Race—April Carrion. So I kind of wanted to keep the Carrion. And then I chose E’claire because of two reasons: because of the drag queen I was raised by and because of my grandma. They both had the same name, which was E’claire. So, like, I wanted to make sure that I carry a piece of them no matter where I can go. So, like, if I’m doing drag, I’m like, thank you, Grandma. Thank you for letting me death drop.
How did you get into drag?
So I was raised by a drag queen, and I loved her my whole life, but then she ended up passing to COVID. So I, like, hated drag after that. I was like, drag took her life. I was like, everything about drag is just so ugh to me. But then it was the summer of last year—her actual drag daughter reached out to me, and she was like, “Hey, like, I have a letter and it’s from her. And, like, if you want to read it, you’re old enough now, you can. If you don’t, like, I completely understand.” And I was like, you know what? Like, let me read it. Like, what’s the worst that can happen? You know what I mean?
And that was the best thing ever. I read the letter. It was, like, a six-page
letter—like, it was going and going. I was like, alright girl, you’ve written too much. But, like, in it, she was just like, “I would love for you to take over my legacy. Like, drag has always been a part of my life, and I would love for it to be a part of yours.” And then I was like, alright. I debuted in October. Since then, bitch, I’ve been booked and busy. I’ve been hosting here. I’m hosting in New Hampshire next month. I have a ball in, like, two days. I have another ball at Man Ray in Cambridge. So I’ve been, like, really doing my thing.
“I want to be able to, like, inspire people who were like me. Because many, many, many, many moons ago, I was homeless for a few years. And, like, I did not think I’d be where I am now.”
What’s your favorite part about drag?
My favorite part is, like, how I’m able to bounce between things, like I’m a little boy... and I’m a girl... and I’m back to a boy. I’m literally gonna turn to a boy right after this, go to lunch, and then go work my ice cream job at JP Licks in Beacon Hill from 4 PM to 11:45, and then do it all over again. But I’m only gonna be working there for, like, another month. Because, like, the extra money is—trust me. Because, like, I also pay for my own college. And, like, I’ve been spending so much money on hair and outfits. I spent $300 on a damn ponytail. Why can’t I just grow out my hair? If I had Bretman Rock’s hair, I would do anything for that. Anything for that. But instead, I’m stuck with this.
How do you feel about where you’re at now?
I’m just very excited where I am in life with drag. I love drag. And my main part is, like, I want to be able to, like, inspire people who were like me. Because many, many, many, many moons ago, I was homeless for a few years—few, emphasis on the few. And, like, I did not think I’d be where I am now. And, like, I was just on a billboard for Calvin Klein. Yes. My first ever billboard was for Calvin Klein, and it’s still up. But, like, no—that’s so crazy to me.
How would you describe your aesthetic?
It depends on the day, I’ll tell you that. I am moving to a new drag mom, and she’s very, like, punkcringe, kind of. She just kind of got eliminated on Season 17 a few weeks ago. Her name is Arietti, and she’s, like, very dark, I guess. But, like, I kind of want to bring light to their family. So we had a talk, and she was like, “You know, I love your vibe. Like, I love your vibes—with an S at the end.” Because, like, one day you can see me in a very skinny nose, some days you see me in this. I usually do this when I’m in a rush. I go by it just because it’s so easy to do. And it’s, like, been my, like, main one.
I’m usually in, like, a gown. I love a good gown. Get me a gown. I was in Vegas, and I bought this beautiful-ass gown that I was gonna wear for this shoot. But I was like, it’s just not this one. Trust— it’ll be saved. I’m wearing that one April 3. You catch me in this. You can catch me looking like a mom. I won’t lie. Catch me in mom jeans. Mom jeans.
I go through, like, so many different personas. I think that’s the best thing, though, is being able to show off your versatility. Because, like, some days you’ll see me with no padding, some days you’ll see me with padding. You know, I really love to switch up my vibes all the time, because I really like people to be like, I wonder what’s next for Eclair? I don’t want people to be like, ugh, she’s gonna do that again, and then it’s like a flop. I didn’t take my grandma’s name for her to roll in the grave.
What’s the end goal with drag?
I am predicting to be on Drag Race Season 20 or 21, and I know that it’s gonna happen. I’ll say that. Like, yes, confidence, but also like...yes. My drag mom auditioned for Drag Race during 2020, and when she passed, she got in. But she died, so she couldn’t accept it. Because she croaked, girl. She croaked!
But once I don’t look like this—when my body’s more tea? Trust, I’m coming for a lot of people’s careers. It’s actually very crazy. Like, my gig that’s on April 3, I’m literally performing with, like, the bigger people of Boston. And I’m, like, the only one that’s 19 years old. Everybody’s, like, almost 30, maybe or above. One of the queens, like, in her 40s—she’s like, Oh my God, like, how old are you? I was like, Guess, babe. Guess. I’m younger than your son. Thank you.
But yeah, I know for a fact that, like—trust, just trust. And you better vote when I get on. Like, when I make it to the top four, you better vote. When I make it to the top two, you better vote. Because I know who votes. Trust. Trust.
Behind the Wigs and Glamour: Tracing the History of Boston Drag Culture
Hanna-Elisa Böhnisch
In the spirit of “Stripping Down,” we believe it’s always valuable to revisit the past—to break it down, understand it, and see how it shapes who we are now. Along with writer and LGBTQ+ historian Mark Krone, we retraced the vibrant, radical, and spectacular history of one of Boston’s boldest art forms: drag.
This retrospective was created in collaboration with The History Project, a community archive dedicated to documenting and preserving New England’s LGBTQ+ history. Founded in 1980 with a grant from the City of Boston, the volunteer-run nonprofit shares its resources with LGBTQ+ individuals, organizations, allies, and the broader public, ensuring that queer stories are not forgotten. Boston’s drag culture has evolved significantly over the decades, with its roots tracing back to the late 1930s. The story begins with the opening of Jacque’s Cabaret, now the city’s oldest continuously operating gay bar. Originally a regular diner near the theater district, Jacque’s opened its doors in 1939 and quietly became
a haven for Boston’s queer community. Those who were in the know found a space where they could express themselves freely—if carefully.
According to Mark Krone, it wasn’t a surprise that the establishment would soon be populated by the queer community. “You’re bound to meet queer people— because we are creative. We find comfort in creating our art, theatre, fashion, our gender.”
Though Jacque’s wasn’t openly advertised as a gay bar and was still frequented by straight men, the cabaret quickly became a sanctuary for queer runaways—including many young runaways. One of its most prominent events was the Beaux-Arts Ball, an annual themed drag extravaganza staged regularly during the 1950s and ‘60s by Black and Latinx members of the community. The ball was part of a larger drag ball tradition that began in New York City in the late nineteenth century, complete with elaborate handmade costumes, performances, and fierce competition. Modeled after debutante balls, these events offered new drag performers a chance to “come out” to gay society—a tradition that continues to this day.
Boston has always contained contradictions—progressive in some ways, deeply traditional in others. “Boston is such a schizophrenic place,” Krone says. “It has a fascinating double personality.”
On one hand, the city’s large student population kept it young, curious, and artistically alive. On the other hand, Boston’s deep Irish Catholic roots gave the church—and its cardinal—tremendous influence over political and cultural life. In the 1950s, a city ordinance required every person to wear at least three items of clothing “assigned to their gender,” forcing trans people and drag performers to live on the fringes, often in fear of arrest.
Still, drag found a way to grow. From the 1960s through the 1980s, the number of drag venues and performance spaces expanded. But so did internal tensions. A generation of white, gay, relatively conservative men began to feel uneasy about drag’s defiant rejection of gender norms. “They were uncomfortable with the genderfucking of it,” Krone explains.
Some queer spaces began to limit who could participate. Bars imposed policies that restricted the number of drag performers of color and women allowed onstage, favoring what Krone calls a “‘70s macho thing”—a vision of queerness that celebrated masculinity and suppressed everything else.
Lesbians, too, were forced to navigate male-dominated environments. At Boston’s first Pride Parade in 1971, straight men showed up and leered at lesbian marchers, undermining what was meant to be a safe space. Around the same time, second-wave feminism was reshaping public conversation about gender and performance. Some feminists viewed drag as a cruel parody of femininity,
while others saw it as a subversive satire—an exaggerated mirror held up by the rigid, performative roles society forced on all women.
The resistance didn’t end there. As the AIDS crisis devastated queer communities in the 1980s and ‘90s, Boston’s drag queens stepped up—not just as performers, but as fundraisers, organizers, and caretakers. “The thing about drag queens in Boston is, they raised a lot of money,” Krone says. “They deserve a lot of credit for that.”
One of the most significant acts of activism came from The Hat Sisters—partners Michael Gray and Tim O’Connor— who became beloved fixtures of Boston’s gay scene by crafting and wearing outrageous, elaborate hats to charity events. Their presence was more than camp: it was community-building. They turned fashion into fundraising, raising thousands of dollars for HIV/AIDS research during some of the bleakest years of the epidemic.
As public understanding of queerness evolved, drag did too. Two decades after Marsha P. Johnson fought back at Stonewall, RuPaul’s Drag Race made drag mainstream, introducing it to millions of Americans through TV screens and meme culture. And with that popularity came an expansion of language: “drag” was no longer confined to queens in gowns, lip-syncing and dancing. These days, any performer who plays with gender roles and expectations might fall under the drag umbrella— whether they’re lip-synching, dancing, or experimenting beyond traditional drag formats altogether. Today, Boston continues to produce new drag talent. Verna Turbulence Daniel holds the title of “Queen Mother of Massachusetts and Protector of the Realm” with the Imperial Court of Massachusetts, a nonprofit organization that blends camp and community service. Katya Zamolodchikova—better known simply as “Katya”---got her start at Jacque’s Cabaret before earning a cult following on RuPaul’s Drag Race Season 7 and shaping the modern drag conversation one unhinged YouTube video or Twitter meme at a time.
But as drag becomes more popular, queer spaces are changing—and not always in ways that feel safe or welcome to the people who built them. Crowds at gay bars today are often dominated by groups of white women. What started as appreciation can sometimes turn into entitlement, and bachelorette parties six tequila shots deep start to shift the energy. The question lingers: when a space is created for survival and self-expression, what happens when the audience forgets—or never knew?
Still, Boston’s drag scene lives on, transforming alongside its community. “The more out and open people can be,” Krone reflects, “the less drag there will be.” But maybe drag doesn’t disappear—it just evolves. From underground balls to televised competitions, from charity galas to meme culture, Boston drag has always been about adaptation, spectacle, and truth-telling. Behind the wigs and glamour, it remains what it’s always been: bold, brilliant, and never quite what you expect.
The Naked Truth in a Powdered Wig
Charlotte Waeschle
In front of hundreds of my peers, I stood naked, wearing only a white powdered wig. I was front and center at the Prudential Center hockey arena as my body was projected on the jumbotron. Naturally, I froze, my eyes glued to the screen.
Then, I danced.
I shimmied, I jumped, and when the blaring voice of Belgian musician Danzel instructed, I put my hands up in the air. The electro-pop remix slowly faded out, the hockey game resumed, and I waited. After a few uneventful minutes, the music started again, and I shined again, fully nude once more in front of the entire school, cavorting for my fans.
The game resumed shortly, only to be interrupted by a goal from my hometown team. A wave of red, white, and blue erupted with a fusion of prideful (and likely drunken) chants.
As expected by now, the screen again projected my likeness. In my final fifteen seconds of fame, I closed out my performance with a powerfully patriotic salute to the crowd. The ovation was exclusively for me, my body blissfully au naturel. I smiled. My work was done. As the designated “fat friend” for seventeen years running, I had never felt confident in my pale, freckled skin. So why, then, at a USA themed state championship hockey game, in front of everyone I knew, was I completely naked? In reality, I wasn’t.
To me, being clothed in my well-worn, child’s-sized, 100% polyester George Washington costume—originally bought to earn five extra credit points on an AP US History project, complete with a velvet cobalt blue jacket and a khaki button-up vest, and finished with one unkempt white powdered wig—was as “naked” as I needed to be.
I had always convinced myself that I was too big, that I took up too much space. To compensate for my presumed absence of beauty (or rather a surplus of stomach), I fed my need for attention by liberating my underlying comedic
genius, cleverly masking the fat beneath it. This nonchalant attitude, however, could not resolve the ambivalence I continued to carry about my authentic identity. Despite all the positive reactions I’d received to my witty jokes and goofy personality, I often found myself fixated on every flaw I saw in the mirror; the funny girl with the big heart didn’t matter when the chubby girl in sweatpants was all anyone ever saw. Until I dropped a pants size or grew some boobs, my true merit would remain concealed.
Or so I thought.
That night at the arena, it became clear that the Washington costume is not a disguise but a crystalline window, exposing everything that makes me who I am. It confesses my long-suppressed love of performing for others ever since that well-earned leading role at theater camp. It uncovers my obsession with learning from the past, beginning with my fifth-grade colonial America phase that evidently carried on into high school. It reveals the commitment and passion I bring into everything I do, whether it’s donning a wig for a history assignment or adding some extra sparkle to an already memorable hockey game.
When I saw myself larger than life on the jumbotron, nakedness assumed an improved meaning. To be naked, we don’t have to strip down; we just have to be honest— not just to others, but, more importantly, to ourselves. We can’t discredit our strengths just because our weaknesses seem to glow brighter. We can’t paint our differences as imperfections. We can’t allow others’ opinions to stop us from doing what we were made to do, what we love.
With my newfound interpretation and appreciation of what it really means to be naked, I use my love of comedy and connections to promote positive self-esteem among those who experience the same apprehension and discomfort I felt—and often still feel—about my body. I understand I may not overthrow centuries-long toxic beauty standards with a kid’s Halloween costume. But in the meantime, there is only one person we can aspire to become: our naked selves.
Creative
Creative Direction: Naomi Cohen
Support: Capri Bold
Model: Elijah Carrion
Photography: Lucas De Oliveira, Madison Kahler
Videography: Tyler Hom
Social Media: Tracianna Walcott, Ava Spurgeon, Madison Kahler
Interview: Esmeralda Moran
Editorial Design: Naomi Cohen
Unpacked is a study in selfhood, stitched together from the pieces we carry. Through layered scans, handwritten notes, and front-and-back portraits, this shoot captures people in the midst of their everyday identities—not polished or posed, but lived-in. The pages read like a personal archive: worn garments, pharmacy receipts, scraps of routine. What we wear becomes a kind of language. What we keep becomes a kind of truth. In stripping back to the personal, the practical, and the uncurated, Unpacked offers a quiet, intimate portrait of how we show up in the world.
Lets Play Dress Up
Rachel Yu
I spend hours in front of my closet each night, deciding what to wear to class the next morning. I convince myself I can’t repeat the same pair of jeans or a top I wore last week—because if I do, someone might label me the dreaded “outfit repeater.”
There’s no one I’m attempting to impress, and nowhere important I’m going. Still, choosing what to wear has become something I take seriously—so seriously that I sometimes change outfits three times a day. And yet, none of it feels like it’s for me. Looking polished has stopped being a personal standard and turned into something performative.
More often than not, all that effort is just for me to sit silently in the back of a 100-person lecture, far from anyone’s attention. I’m wearing a grey off-the-shoulder sweater from Aritzia, paired with my favorite FRAME dress pants and Frye boots. I glance around to see if anyone notices—or even admires—my outfit. But everyone is simply absorbed in their phones.
Other people’s opinions shape how I present myself in public. On days when I’d rather wear sweatpants and a hoodie, I’ll force myself into knitwear and trousers— anything to avoid looking lazy or basic. I stand in front of the mirror picking apart how the clothes sit on my body. Some tops make my shoulders look too broad. Some pants make my legs feel stubby. Eventually, after enough trial and error, I go back to the same two things: dark wash jeans and a knit sweater.
This desire to look presentable has followed me my whole life. When I was in elementary school, my mother dressed me in pleated skirts and turtleneck sweaters, always emphasizing the importance of being well-dressed. As I grew older, I felt the pressure to maintain that standard.
Style is supposed to be about creativity and selfexpression—but what if the things that feel most like “me” don’t look good on me? Is it wrong to prioritize how I’m perceived over how I feel? I want to wear clothes that reflect who I am—but I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard—or worse, like I’m wearing something that doesn’t suit me. So, again, it’s dark wash jeans and a sweater.
Most of my anxiety around clothing comes from wanting to control how I’m seen. What I wear is how I curate that
image. In that sense, yes—it reflects my personality. I’m still figuring out what my style is. But I’m starting to learn that I should be dressing for myself—not for compliments or approval.
I wore a bright red chiffon dress to a casual high school award show. I rarely wear color, and with everyone else in muted tones, I felt completely out of place.
I realized that if I don’t feel comfortable or authentic wearing an outfit, then why should I sacrifice that for mere gratification and validation?
One thing I’ve started to understand—and something I wish more people believed—is that no one’s really paying attention. When I walk around campus or people-watch in the city, I barely notice what anyone else is wearing. I might admire an outfit, but I’m not analyzing anyone’s fashion choices. And if I’m not doing that, why do I assume they’re doing it to me?
We’re taught to “look presentable” before we leave the house—but that definition keeps shifting. Today, it means looking trendy, polished, and perfectly on-brand. And with the constant exposure of social media, it’s harder than ever to separate our sense of self from others’ opinions. But those opinions only hold power if you let them. Until we build the confidence to let go of that pressure, they’ll keep shaping how we show up in the world. At the end of the day, no one else gets to dress you. That’s your choice. That’s your freedom.
These days, dressing for myself means prioritizing how I feel. I wear what makes me feel confident and comfortable—not what’s trending, not what earns compliments. My style isn’t perfect. But it finally feels like mine.
Imposter
Esmeralda Moran
Syndrome
Scrolling through social media seems to have become a chore when video after video consists of people asking each other what the seasonal shoe will be, or debate what they should wear until the next trend inevitably appears. It is difficult to pick an outfit from the closet without scrolling through Instagram to make sure it’s still in style. The pressure to follow trends while simultaneously pushing individuality has cost us the ability to procure style authentically—we’ve begun dressing in costumes instead.
Clothing is often treated as an extension of our personalities—a preview of who we want to be perceived as. Every article of clothing seems to matter when it comes to self-imagery—the louder or more recognizable, the better. Social media pushes patterns and identifiable aesthetics: “clean girl,” “office siren” and “y2k” to name a few. Choosing not to follow the latest trend could make you stand out—it also puts you at risk of being labeled out-of-style or even unfashionable. The fear of standing out leads many to replicate trends that feel manageable rather than reaching for what they truly identify with.
To fit in, there is often little thought put into what is worn as looking good matters more than feeling good. Could the red ballet flats, wide-leg trousers or leopard print clothing you bought last month actually be costumes instead? Could the contemplation to thin out your brows or ordering a Coach bag to fit in with your trendy coworkers lull you
into conformity? And so comes the unwillingness to branch out, to figure out who you are in a sea of identical aesthetics.
The concept of trends is rooted in the recycling of past aesthetic fascinations—a constant cycle of the past reappearing in the present. Through this cycle, there is no true way of determining what is out of fashion because at any point, your eclectic sense of style could suddenly become trendy, or another person’s way to fit in. The pressure to be “on trend”—to look like an it-girl—can push you into something unsafe: an outfit that keeps you from being laughed at, but leaves you feeling like a clown.
Clothing starts to feel like a performance when you don’t have the means to express yourself freely. Price point becomes a hindrance to self-realization, settling rather than seeking a personalized style. Thrifting becomes more about fitting an aesthetic than a practical means for finding pieces that reflect you. Last season’s clothes fill the aisles, a remnant of minds dissuaded by a persona they could not fully embody.
Instead of chasing trends you don’t connect with, it is best to stick to what feels true to you. Your style, not society’s. Rather than feel like a stranger in an outfit that doesn’t belong, indulging in your sense of self can guide individuality in a way that is both authentic and affirming.
Creative Direction: Naomi
Creative Support: Grace
Cohen
Pisciotta
Models: Bella Masotti, Han Hoang
Photography: Pablo González, Ellie Watson
Social Media: Mea Mata, Madeleine Dorman, Kailey Correa
Editorial Design: Alicia Chiang, Naomi Cohen
In Skin Deep, the body becomes both subject and landscape. Through extreme close-ups and abstract framing, familiar shapes blur into something more ambiguous—soft planes, strange textures, shifting forms. Stripped of identity and excess, the body dissolves into composition. What we’re left with isn’t a portrait but a study in light, touch, and texture. It’s intimate, but anonymous. Tender, but unreadable. A reminder that even the most familiar forms can become unfamiliar when we look closely enough.
Dark and Beautiful
Hiba Siddiqui
I skipped down the grocery aisle with my grandma close behind. The Indian supermarket always fascinated me, and I could never contain my excitement as she sifted through packets of flour and rice. The familiar scents of fruits, vegetables, hair care products, spices, and teas filled the air, grounding me in a sense of home. I twirled through the aisles, brushing my fingertips against the lined shelves, until lost in my excited wandering and frolicking, I found myself sheepishly rearranging fallen boxes.
“Oh, perfect! Just what we needed, Hiba,” my grandmother said cheerfully, gently placing one of the boxes from my hand into the cart.
I studied the box, scratching my head. A woman with jet-black hair and almond-shaped, mahogany eyes stared back at me. But something felt off. She lacked the warmth of my mother, the authenticity I loved in Indian culture. I squinted at the label with innocent curiosity: Fair and Lovely: Skin-Whitening Cream. My eyes dropped to the tan lines, discoloration, and blemishes on my hands and feet. There had to be a mistake.
“Nanima, we picked up the wrong lotion. This one makes your skin white,” I said, placing it back on the shelf. “Look at yourself, my dear. That’s exactly why we’re getting it.”
That moment didn’t start the struggle, but it made it real to me. The pressure to be fair-skinned had shaped women for generations before I was born, passed down quietly through comments, expectations, and creams tucked into shopping carts. But that day in the store, it landed on my shoulders. I began to see myself differently. I’d fuss over sunspots after hours of basketball under the blazing sun. I would scrub my skin raw in the bath, hoping my grandma wouldn’t notice my darkened arms. On family beach trips, I would hide beneath long sleeves and wide-brimmed hats. That trip to the store was the start of my battle with my own skin.
Colorism has long dictated beauty standards in South Asian communities. While it’s only recently entered mainstream conversation, discrimination based on skin tone in India has existed for centuries. British colonialism left behind more than poverty, disease, and economic exploitation—it carved deep-rooted ideals of wealth, beauty, and desirability centered around fair skin. As India modernized, television ads and beauty campaigns only reinforced these notions. In the last 30 years, skinlightening creams like Fair and Lovely have flooded the market, selling fairness as a shortcut to love, success, and belonging.
These products weren’t just about vanity—they became tools for survival and social mobility. Dark skin was no longer seen as natural but as a flaw—something to correct, something to hide. Fairness became synonymous with wealth, power, and respect. Self-acceptance was out of the question.
As a child, I never noticed the irony. The boxes boasted multivitamin, as if they were nourishing. How could something designed to erase a part of you pretend to make you whole? Strip away pigmentation—a cultural marker of ancestry—but throw in vitamins to ease your conscience. The beauty industry tried to justify a product that erased identity. And tragically, it worked.
From a young age, girls like me were taught to link fairness
with beauty. At six and seven, we were warned to avoid the sun. By eight and nine, we stared at our scars and birthmarks, mirroring the criticisms we heard at home. At ten and eleven, we dabbed on lightening creams, and by twelve, we believed they made us beautiful. We whispered our hopes like prayers: let me be fair, let me be lovely.
They say beauty is pain. But not like this—not the pain of erasing your ethnicity with a cream applicator. Not the sting of bleaching agents or the sharper burn of a relative’s casual comment. Fair and Lovely wasn’t just a product; it was a promise—of approval, or acceptance. At that age, I didn’t yet know who I was. But society had already decided I needed to be someone else.
And for a while, I listened.
But over time, I began to question why fairness had been framed as a prize. I grew up steeped in prejudice, measuring my self-worth in shades. But as I matured, I began to embrace my natural pigmentation as a part of my identity—a reflection of my environment. I was born the color of the Earth, meant to embody the hues of the forest, the warmth of dusk, the stillness of dawn. Self acceptance didn’t come all at once, but with time, I peeled back the layers of shame.
Ten years later, I returned to that same supermarket, this time pushing the cart. While Nanima lingered in the produce section, I wandered toward the aisle of sweets and dates. As I scanned the bustling store, a familiar figure stopped me in my tracks. My steps slowed. I knew exactly where to find her—sleek black hair, pursed lips, captivating mahogany eyes, and, of course, luminous, porcelain skin.
I looked at her, surprisingly calm. She wasn’t just a face on a box—she was the embodiment of an entire society’s expectations, a silent promise that fairness meant acceptance. She reflected the pressures placed on young girls, shaping the childhoods of countless brown daughters and appearing in the mirrors we learned to scrutinize too early. She didn’t choose this role—but she became a symbol of what we were taught to desire, and what we were told to erase. We weren’t angry at her, but at what she stood for. I reached for the box, ready to return her to the shelf where she belonged. But I paused. Then, just as my grandmother once did, I placed her gently in the cart— this time with purpose.
She had no name, but her face told the story of Indian society—its obsession with fairness, its myths of desirability, its power to make brown girls doubt their own reflection. She had once defined my childhood perception of beauty.
Same store. Same aisle. Same woman. Same standard. But now, I have a different story to tell.
Funhouse Mirror
Hanna-Elisa Böhnisch
you might have drowned in the blue of her eyes or fallen from grace, envying her to death. and how could you not? she was a goddess–as if sculpted by the hands of an artist.
but they smothered the child she used to be–choked her voice, bleached her hair to gold. with nothing left to desire but a funhouse mirror— destruction as her holy grail. perfection warped into a manufactured marvel, mutilated by the hands of an architect.
The Skin
I’m In
Esmeralda Moran
The concept of time sounds daunting no one wants to admit that they age. But time catches up to us, no matter what we do. Layers of retinol and moisturizer lie dark circles under our eyes, threatening to expose how stressed we are. Wrinkles lie dormant until cream is no longer a viable option to hide what we consider an impurity. We scramble to cover these markers of change, anxious to learn that we are not invincible. The fear lies hidden in us until we spot the first hint of change, living in denial of such possibilities. Somewhere along the way, we gain another ring of age and become acutely aware of the way our bodies ache just a little bit more than they did the year before.
Like the human body, trees seem untouchable. Marked by their sturdy trunks, trees embrace the hardships of life with their immeasurable strength, able to survive even the harshest conditions, both natural and unnatural. We consider them tough and unmoving as they get older, growing a foot taller. It seems nothing can touch these plants as they continue to grow and breathe life into the world around them, unaware of the burden they carry. Invincible are the trees that stand tall, a direct reflection of the human bodies that walk the earth they cannot roam.
Though fragile, the human body is strong. It triumphs as it challenges broken bones, moves past stuffy noses, and discards aches in the limbs. What the body can’t move past, however, is the lingering feeling that strength has its limits. Gray hairs and newly formed stretch marks creep into existence, crushing any prior notions we had that we are immortal. We note the passage of time through the way we can no longer fit the same standard we once held ourselves to. With the sagging of our skin and the evident
acknowledgment of our aging, we watch ourselves grow older and, in turn, become mortal. There, in the reflection of the mirror, we come to terms with our mortality and accept that the concept of forever is not as real as we’d like it to be.
Our markers of time—impurities—show how much we’ve changed and just how much we’ve endured. Each crease carved into our faces, premature or not, is an amalgamation of the laughs, tears, and every emotion in between experienced by our bodies for the sake of living. In our lifetimes, we become familiar with age, understanding its limits and how they mark us. Premature impurities, like pimples, feel like the end of the world until you spot purple eye bags that don’t go away after eight hours of sleep. Even that becomes childish when faced with discolored hair and new lines around your mouth that weren’t there before. Ever evolving are the marks we despise, making us yearn for a time when we didn’t have them at all. Though they are considered impurities by the body’s owner, the passage of time forgives the person for criticizing themselves.
Over time, we will embrace our graying hair and let go of the dye. Perhaps we might cut back on the use of foundation and stick to concealer instead, allowing some blemishes to shine through for a more understated appearance. One day, we will decide to show off our rings, unbothered by the passage of time and the societal consequences of it. Like the trees that breathe life into us, we breathe life into the way we choose to age, unbothered by the standards that plague our environment and attempt to rot our self-perceptions.
Creative Direction: Naomi Cohen
Creative Support: Grace Pisciotta
Models: Ashley Braren, Jackson Gentry, Angelina Alcivar
Photography: Pablo González, Annie Park
Videography: Rachel Solomon
Style: Hanna-Elisa Böhnisch, Shannah Virivong, Sophia Tierney
Beauty: Ella Strayer, Maria Fischer
Social Media: Tracianna Walcott
Editorial Design: Bella Bohnsack, Grace Pisciotta, Naomi Cohen
STAFF WORK
STAFF WORK
PABLO GONZALEZ
Shot across El Salvador, Pablo’s photos explore the landscapes, towns, and colors of his home country. Shot digitally, the series reflects his love for travel and his attention to the details that bring a scene to life. His grandfather—also named Pablo—first introduced him to photography with a passed-down Nikon film camera, an influence that continues to shape how he sees and captures the world. Follow more of his work: @pab_andresphoto
CATHERINE JOOHEE CHOI
Drawn using charcoal on paper, Cato’s figure studies rethink one of art’s oldest traditions. Inspired by classical drawing techniques but pushing back against their narrow ideals, she worked with models of all body types to explore a more honest, inclusive approach. The project challenges the idea of the “perfect body” and invites viewers to see beauty in a fuller range of human forms.
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Creative
Creative Direction: Naomi Cohen
Support: Capri Bold, Grace Pisciotta
Photo: Bella Bohnsack
