Ifeelmyself - Anthea

One Tuesday, after a particularly suffocating meeting where her boss praised her for being “so accommodating,” she typed a strange, impulsive phrase into a new browser window: ifeelmyself anthea . She didn’t know what she was searching for. Maybe a forgotten song. Maybe a ghost.

She sent a photo of her shadow mid-spin back to the website. Subject line: Anthea, still falling. ifeelmyself anthea

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. One Tuesday, after a particularly suffocating meeting where

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. Maybe a ghost