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.
Anthea stared at the blinking cursor. Then, she began to write. ifeelmyself anthea
And for the first time, Anthea believed it. She hadn’t found herself. She’d simply stopped hiding from who she’d always been. By the end of the month, Anthea had