Honestly the most raw thing I ever did was a one‑page zine I slapped together in the middle of a blackout. I pulled out my notebook, wrote every damn thought that was burning in my head—my insecurities, the ways I’ve let people see me, the shame of a broken friendship. Then I ripped out the page, cut it into jagged shapes, glued it to a stack of old concert ticket stubs, and taped it to a wall in my apartment. Seeing it there, it wasn’t polished, it was messy, it was honest. It felt like I was holding my own heart in a plastic bag and letting the world peek. The next day someone knocked on my door, asked if it was okay, and I realized that feeling of being exposed can be a kind of armor. It was scary, but also the most real thing I’ve ever put out there.