There’s something magical
when you let yourself fall
into the arms of your character
and give in a little.

When their memories
feel more vivid than your own.
When you fall
into the shape of someone else
and let them lead.
When you feel fully… embodied.

There’s a similar kind of magic
in wearing someone else’s clothes.
Their shoes.
As if you’re being quietly hugged—
held in their presence.
Never truly alone.

I love wearing my mom’s clothes.
They smell like her.

My grandmother’s green trench coat
with deep pockets.
Frankie’s white turtleneck.
Nicole’s sweatpants.

Each piece carries a memory.
A connection.

I love saying,
“This coat was my grandmother’s.”
It carries her story.
It carries me.
And for a moment,
we share a life.

It makes me feel grounded—
connected to something
bigger than myself.

Something that reminds me
I’m part of a thread
that stretches far beyond
this role,
this day,
this body.