Being at the intersection of Gen Z and Millennials, I’ve noticed a pattern.

It be them damn phones📱

No one is truly authentically living in their truth anymore because they’re scared of being judged or scared that the device we carry 24/7 will catch them in 4K simply being themselves.

And honestly? I wanted to challenge that rhetoric.

Do I always need my phone?

No.

But my phone has become a device for convenience, and convenience has quietly cut out a lot of human interaction.

You get lost? You open your phone.

Don’t you know someone’s number? It’s saved in your phone.

Are you uncomfortable somewhere? Pull out your phone.

Are you alone? Suddenly, you have somewhere to be on the internet.

I realized my phone had become my safe space.

If I went somewhere by myself, I’d pull it out. Not because I actually needed to do anything, but because I hated the thought of being perceived. I’d pretend to scroll so I wouldn’t have to sit there and look like I was… alone.

But at the beginning of last year, I started going on solo dates.

They became acts of service for me. A way to find myself again. A way to get out of a creative funk.

And it helped.

Because eventually, I realized that so much of my fear of being alone was all in my head.

So this summer, I wanted to feel free.

I wanted to leave the judgments I had for myself at the door.

So I said:

“FUCK IT.”

Let’s have a phone-free summer.

My Idea of a Hot Girl Summer Is a Phone-Free Summer

Obviously, I need my phone. The bill is paid, okay? 😂 She’s not being left at home.

This isn’t about throwing my phone away and saying, “Be anti-phone.”

It’s about setting a boundary with myself.

I can have a phone without always having to use it.

But what does that actually look like in 2026?

The concept of a phone-free summer is simple:

Don’t pull it out every five seconds.

Have you met someone? You don’t always need to exchange social media. Let that connection live in the moment.

Not everything needs to be recorded.

Not everything needs to become content.

Not every experience needs proof that it happened.

It’s safe in your pocket, babe.

Let it stay there until you need to call an Uber or you’re meeting up with someone.

Phone-free summer is about enjoying everything around you with your own eyes, without Inspector Gadget catching everything in 4K.

So I decided to put myself to the test.

I started in June.

And the freedom it brought me?

Whew.

It made me feel like a teenager again.

Carefree.

Present.

I didn’t feel the constant need to pull out my phone.

And if I told you everywhere I’ve been this summer, you probably wouldn’t even believe me because I didn’t document half of it.

But that forced me to ask myself a question:

Who was I recording these videos for?

Was I recording them for myself?

Or was I recording them for the appeasement of others to feel “seen,” accepted, validated?

That question changed everything.

Because phone-free summer became less about my phone and more about ME.

Who Was I Before I Became a Content Creator?

Phone-free summer was a revelation.

It felt like coming back to myself.

Coming back to the person I was before I became a content creator.

And that’s complicated when you’re a full-time creative.

Your income depends on consistency. Your career depends on being visible. The algorithm rewards you for constantly showing up.

So, how do you create boundaries when your livelihood is connected to being online?

For a long time, I felt like I needed to document everything.

Every experience could be a story.

Every outing could be a video.

Every thought could become content.

And while creating has helped me discover so many different parts of myself, I started wondering whether I was discovering myself for ME or for an audience.

A phone-free summer gave me enough distance to understand my why without needing validation attached to it.

Growing up being bullied, I think as I got older, I started searching for acceptance

And eventually, I found it online.

The comments became my safe haven because, for the first time, I found people who understood me. People who got the jokes. People who related to my experiences.

The internet gave me something I desperately wanted:

A place to feel seen.

But somewhere along the way, I lost focus on my sense of self.

Because being seen and knowing yourself are two very different things.

Every piece of content you capture tells a story.

It’s raw when you first experience it.

But then you edit it.

You choose the angle.

The lighting.

The sound.

The caption.

The version of yourself you think is the funniest, coolest, most relatable version.

And that’s where the lines start to blur.

At what point are you documenting your life?

And at what point are you creating a life that looks good when documented?

Maybe We Don’t Need to Capture Everything

I don’t think phones are inherently bad.

I love my phone.

Trust me, I am not giving her up.

But I am learning that access doesn’t have to mean constant access.

I don’t need to photograph every beautiful moment for it to count.

I don’t need to post every thought for it to matter.

I don’t need to exchange Instagram handles with everyone I meet.

And I don’t need to hide behind my screen just because I’m alone.

Sometimes, I can just sit there.

Look around.

Talk to somebody.

Get lost.

Figure it out.

Be awkward.

Be perceived.

LIVE.

A phone-free summer isn’t about disconnecting from the world.

It’s about disconnecting from the version of yourself that is constantly wondering how the world is seeing you.

For me, it became a healthy boundary between what I share with the world and what I keep for myself.

Some memories can just belong to me.

Some experiences don’t need an audience.

Some moments don’t need to be captured in 4K.

They just need to be lived.

So if you’ve been feeling like your phone is attached to your hand, maybe try putting it in your pocket.

Go somewhere alone.

Talk to somebody without asking for their Instagram.

Leave the camera off.

Let yourself be bored.

Let yourself be awkward.

Let yourself exist without documenting the evidence.

A phone-free summer might just be the cure for those of us yearning for a little more interaction than a follow.

Thank me later.

Or call me about it.

LOL

Are we really building “community,” or does the word just look good on paper?

“Community” has become one of those words that gets thrown around so often that it’s almost lost its meaning. It’s used to describe networking events, creative spaces, professional circles, and even friendships. Everyone claims they’re building community. But what does that actually mean?

Sometimes I wonder if “community” is less about connection and more about access.

The word itself carries a certain protection. If you say you’re building a community, people are less likely to question your motives. It sounds generous. Inclusive. Safe. It suggests you’re creating a space where people belong. But what happens when the people you’ve gathered are no longer useful to your goals? What happens when the connection no longer benefits your success?

I’ve noticed a pattern. People who are trying to build a name for themselves often lead with community. They’re intentional, supportive, and constantly present. At first, it feels genuine. They remember details about your life. They show up at your events. They make you feel seen.

But over time, the relationship starts to feel transactional.

The connection never moves beyond the surface. They know everything about you, but somehow you know very little about them. They’re constantly mapping relationships, identifying opportunities, and positioning themselves within networks. Every friendship feels like a checkpoint. Every introduction feels strategic.

They give you just enough attention to keep you in their orbit.

The goal isn’t necessarily friendship. The goal is proximity. Proximity to opportunities, influence, credibility, and status.

The irony is that the language of community often hides behavior that would otherwise be recognized as networking. Networking sounds self-interested. Community sounds noble. One is seen as transactional; the other is seen as meaningful.

Real community requires something that social climbing doesn’t, which is reciprocity.

It means showing up when there is nothing to gain. It means maintaining relationships when no opportunities are attached. It means valuing people for who they are, not for who they know.

As creatives, it can be difficult to recognize the difference at first. Sometimes the signs don’t become clear until much later. People are drawn to the excitement around you, the rooms you can get them into, and the introductions you can make. What they’re interested in isn’t necessarily you, it’s your proximity to OPPORTUNITY.

It took me years to understand that dynamic, which is one reason my circle is so small today. I know a lot of people, but I’m friends with very few.

I remember becoming close with someone who had recently moved to New York and didn’t know anyone. We bonded over a shared love of fashion, music, and content creation. They had aspirations of becoming a DJ, so I introduced them to people in my network, invited them into spaces, and helped them build connections.

Then something changed.

Once they became established and formed relationships with the people I had introduced them to, the friendship suddenly disappeared. Yet they remained deeply involved with the same community and connections they had gained access to through our relationship.

Maybe that’s why I’m skeptical whenever community is used as a branding tool. I’ve seen how easily the language of belonging can be used to disguise ambition. I’ve watched people preach connection while treating relationships like stepping stones.

Not everyone who talks about community is a social climber. Genuine communities exist everywhere. But the more the word becomes a personal brand, the more we should ask whether we're witnessing connection or simply ambition wrapped in softer language.

In a society where thin is “in” and European beauty standards are treated like the blueprint, choosing to live boldly in a big body becomes a trigger for some people.

So the first sentence that rolls off their tongue is: “I love your confidence.”

Many would say that’s a compliment. Why? Because they’re admiring my audacity to belong in a space? But if you really listen to it, there’s an undertone of: “How dare you?”

How dare you live?
How dare you belong?
How dare you take up space so comfortably?

Because if I looked like everyone else, nobody would question it. The only difference is that I exist outside of what society labels acceptable.

Well, I don’t follow European beauty standards, babe, and neither should you.

“I love your confidence” goes beyond size. It’s said to anyone who exists outside the norm. Anything deemed “different” suddenly becomes a spectacle. Taste gets labeled by sexuality. Height gets tied to sports. Personality becomes entertainment. Society loves putting people into boxes.

Now imagine being tall, big, and gay. They don’t even know what box to put me in, which is exactly why I walk into every room as if I belong there.

Because I do.

I take up space because I should. And it shouldn’t cause a gasp when someone refuses to shrink themselves to make other people comfortable. When you’re that ONE, space is inevitable to take.

Beauty standards were never created with people who look like me in mind. Society stereotypes people like me into one box, and I refuse to be reduced to the “fat funny friend.”

My confidence isn’t cocky. It’s freedom. It’s an “I don’t give a f*ck” to anybody uncomfortable with my existence.

Ten toes down.

And society is tricky, because if you’re not confident, they label you depressed, insecure, or sad. But once you are confident, suddenly you’re “too much.”

So which one is it?

Because the truth is, people only love confidence when it still comes with permission. When it’s quiet. Digestible. Humble enough not to challenge their own insecurities.

The second confidence walks into a room loudly, unapologetically, and attached to a body they were taught shouldn’t exist so freely, it suddenly becomes arrogance.

But confidence was never meant to make you comfortable.

Especially not MINE.

I spent too much of my life being told to shrink myself physically, emotionally, and socially. To laugh at the joke before somebody else could. To make people comfortable before I made myself comfortable.

Not ANYMORE.

I am not going to dim myself down just because my existence disrupts the fantasy society sold you about who deserves visibility, softness, love, or desire.

And maybe that’s what actually bothers people.

Not my confidence.
My refusal to apologize for it.

I used to be the life of the party.
Always surrounded by people. Always laughing. Always available.

But something shifted.
And that shift was me wanting to be alone.

I think when your feelings get hurt enough, when people begin taking your presence for granted, a part of you slowly becomes numb to connection. Not because you stop caring, but because constantly pouring into others without feeling seen changes you.

People always say not to let one rotten apple ruin the way you see everyone else. And maybe they’re right.

But honestly, that rotten apple brought me closer to myself.

Solitude stopped feeling lonely and started feeling honest. Being alone, I began reconnecting with parts of myself I had ignored while trying to belong everywhere else. I learned my own thoughts, my own rhythms, my own peace.

Detachment wasn’t bitterness.
It was self-preservation.
It was finally hearing myself after so much noise.

And maybe that’s the strange beauty of being alone. Sometimes, distance from people can become closeness with yourself.

In doing so, I allowed myself to maneuver through rooms alone. Going out in groups always made me feel like I needed a drink just to be social. Being alone made me comfortable with myself.

Comfortable with every part of me, and embracing myself at the highest level.

To the people and experiences that made me feel isolated, thank you.

In the end, it taught me patience with myself and allowed me to view the world differently.

The art of detachment created a stillness that was necessary for my next step in life.

The energy you bring into a room should be enough validation.
But for the longest time, I didn’t believe that.

Walking into a room by yourself is scary. Having a +1 gives you someone to bounce off, someone who makes the space feel less intimidating.

As an introvert/extrovert, I loved having a +1. It helped me work a room in ways I didn’t think I could on my own. But that mindset was also holding me back from ever finding out who I was by myself in those spaces.

One random Tuesday, I took myself out on a solo date, and it changed everything. It made me question why I was so afraid to be alone in the first place.

A table for one. An art gallery date.

It forced me to get back in touch with myself.

It made me think about society, friendships, and who I was before I became a public figure, the silly, goofy, quiet kid who enjoys art, film, and fashion.

For once, I didn’t feel like I had to perform. And in a lot of spaces, that’s exactly what we do: we code-switch, we adjust, we become who we think the room needs.

The truth? I think a lot of us have been conditioned to feel like we’re not enough on our own. A +1 becomes a safety net. Someone who understands you, who makes unfamiliar spaces feel safe.

But what if the rooms you’re being invited into are meant just for you?
What if, in choosing comfort, you’re quietly blocking your own blessings or even handing them to someone else?

I started showing up solo on purpose. Putting myself in rooms where I would normally feel like I needed a +1. And honestly, the opportunities started showing up when I was the most uncomfortable.

Growing up, I always felt like an outsider. Later, becoming a public figure gave me a sense of acceptance and community. But somewhere along the way, being surrounded by people made me dependent instead of independent, the opposite of who I was when I stood alone.

I realized I had become a people pleaser. I didn’t want to risk feeling rejected again. So I created scenarios in my head, second-guessed myself, and leaned on having someone else there.

But going solo forced me to face that fear and realize most of it was never real to begin with.

I learned to walk into any room by myself, head held high, because just like everybody else, I belong there.

And so do you.

Sometimes, all it takes is one solo date to realize you were never missing anything; you just needed to show up for yourself.

What intrigues me most about social media isn’t the content. It’s the quiet politics behind it, the subtle social climbing, the unspoken rules, and the ways people manage proximity to each other online.

We usually talk about parasocial relationships with celebrities and their fans. But they happen all the time between regular people, too. Someone can hate you in real life and still follow your every move online

Why?

Access.

But access to what, exactly?

The answer is simple: Social media has become the new resume.

When you first meet someone today, what’s the first thing you ask for? Their Instagram. Not their number. Not their email. Just that.

Your social media profile quietly tells people everything they think they need to know about you. Who follows you? Who you follow. What spaces do you appear in? What events do you attend? What rooms does your content circulate through?

All of those signals create a digital hierarchy that people navigate, whether they admit it or not.

Because of this, following someone isn’t always about liking them. Sometimes it’s about proximity. Proximity to an audience, a community, a scene, or an idea of success.

And that’s where the Friend-to-Supporter-to-Ghost-Follower Pipeline begins.

At first, the relationship feels normal. Supportive, even. You like each other’s photos. You comment. You reply to stories. Maybe you repost each other’s work. You’re in each other’s orbit visibly.

The interaction signals friendship.

But relationships change. People fall out. Conversations stop. Maybe nothing dramatic even happens, the connection just fades.

And when that happens online, most people don’t unfollow.

They MUTE.

Muting is often framed as a healthy digital boundary. It’s presented as a way to “protect your peace” or curate your algorithm so you only see what makes you feel good.

But there’s an uncomfortable question underneath that logic:

If someone truly no longer matters to you, why not just unfollow them?

The reason is simple. Muting allows you to keep the connection without the interaction.

You can stop seeing their posts. Stop engaging with their life. Stop participating in the relationship. But the follow still exists, which means the access still exists too.

You can still look them up.

You can still check their page.

You can still quietly observe their life from a distance.

Muting creates a strange middle ground where a relationship technically still exists but functionally does not.

The following becomes symbolic instead of social.

And people often argue that unfollowing someone creates drama. That’s too obvious. Too confrontational. Too final.

But here’s the thing people underestimate: silence is obvious too.

If you used to be the first person viewing someone’s story, liking their posts, commenting, and reposting their work, they notice when that suddenly stops.

Social media interaction creates patterns. And when those patterns disappear, people feel it.

Muting doesn’t erase that shift. It just makes the withdrawal quieter.

In many ways, muting is the digital version of slowly backing out of a room while still standing in the doorway.

You’re technically still there.

You’re just no longer participating.

And that’s why muting can feel passive-aggressive. It allows someone to maintain the optics of connection while privately disengaging from the relationship itself.

The friendship dissolves, but the follow remains.

Which raises an uncomfortable reality about social media relationships: not everyone who follows you is part of your life.

Some people are just part of your audience now.

In the age of the algorithm, friendships don’t always end with a confrontation.

Sometimes they just turn into followers.

Comfort was something I prioritized growing up. I’ve always been a mix of introvert and extrovert. I can work a room, but I also need to disappear after. I didn’t want to step on anyone’s toes. I wanted everyone to feel good around me.

But what I’ve learned is that comfort can make you small.

And discomfort?
Discomfort gives you power.

Power in boundaries.
Power in clarity.
Power in seeing people for who they actually are.

Being an “influencer” was never the goal. It happened randomly during the pandemic while I was pivoting and trying to figure out my next chapter. One Instagram billboard changed my life, and suddenly I was public. Visible. Popular, something I had never really experienced before.

And popularity comes with people.

At first, it felt beautiful. New friendships. New rooms. New energy. I thought I had found community.

But over time, I started noticing something.

The texts changed.
The energy shifted.
I wasn’t being asked how I was; I was being asked what I was going to.

Invitations felt less like connection and more like currency.

It slowly became clear that for some people, proximity to me meant proximity to access. Industry events. Fashion week. Brand dinners. Spaces they had never been in before.

It started to feel transactional.

Like my presence wasn’t what was valuable, my access was.

And the hardest part? I don’t even think most of them realized they were doing it. Access is seductive. Being around momentum feels like belonging. Being around visibility feels important.

But momentum doesn’t stay high forever.

My brand was rooted in advocating for plus-size men in fashion — taking up space where we were historically erased. For a moment, inclusivity wasn’t just a buzzword. It felt like change was actually happening.

Then the industry shifted.

Runways got narrower again.
Campaigns got smaller literally and figuratively.
The urgency around diverse bodies quietly faded.

I didn’t change.

The industry did.

And with that shift, so did the checks. The invites. The energy.

I went from making six figures a year to being back at square one. And square one wasn’t glamorous. It meant scaling back. It meant focusing on the things I loved before the algorithm ever knew my name, film, and music. My artistry.

But square one also revealed something else.

When the access slowed down, so did certain friendships.

When the invites got quieter, so did the “I love yous.”

That’s when I realized: some people don’t love you. They love the door you hold open.

And when the door closes, so do they.

That realization was uncomfortable.

But discomfort is clarifying.

It forced me to have hard conversations. To protect my inner peace. To stop overextending myself to keep people comfortable with me. I wear my heart on my sleeve, I always have, but I’m learning that not everyone deserves front-row access to it.

It’s okay to let things die on the hill.

It’s okay to let people misunderstand you.

It’s okay to stop being the hallway to someone else’s opportunity.

If something is truly meant for me, a friendship, a career shift, a new chapter, I won’t have to beg it to stay. I won’t have to gaslight myself into believing breadcrumbs are loyalty.

Comfort kept me liked.

Discomfort keeps me aligned.

And I’d rather be aligned than accessible.

Your fear of shopping in the women’s section as a plus-size man interested in fashion is holding you back. That’s not an opinion, it’s a fact if you’re serious about style.

Fashion isn’t confined to gender when you’re trying to tell a story through clothing. Whatever speaks to you is usually what you should be reaching for, whether that’s a woman’s skirt, blouse, or tailored piece. Fashion is art. Clothing is the paintbrush.

The compliment I hear most is about my style: “How do you find pieces that fit you like that?”
The answer is simple: I shop in the women’s section. What’s funny is, if I never said anything, no one would know.

The truth is, the plus-size women’s section is simply more interesting. Men’s Big & Tall sections offer one uniform, one aesthetic, and call it choice. The unspoken message is clear: fashion isn’t for you.

Meanwhile, plus-size women like Precious Lee and Ashley Graham walk for Versace, Moschino, Fendi, and Levi’s. They exist in high fashion. They’re celebrated.

Now ask yourself whether you can name a plus-size male model dominating that same space. You can try. When they exist, it’s usually retail, never high fashion.

That reality is exactly why I started exploring my options. In early 2021, I began naming what I was already practicing: clothing has no gender. The idea challenges the rigid ideology that assigns garments to bodies instead of focusing on construction, silhouette, and intention.

Once I stopped looking at clothing through the lens of gender, my personal style opened up. I stopped searching for “men’s pieces” and started looking for color, shape, and movement. I wanted my clothes to speak for me—to tell a story without explanation.

I wanted leather pants. The men’s section didn’t have them. That didn’t end the search, it redirected it. I learned how to translate women’s sizing into men’s sizing. I looked elsewhere. I adapted.

That’s the difference.

You have to picture clothing without gender and see the concept you’re painting with your brush. When you do, you stop waiting for permission. You stop accepting the lie that your body limits your creativity.

The industry may not imagine you in high fashion, but that doesn’t mean you don’t belong there. It means you were never meant to shop only where you were told to look.

Style isn’t about what section you’re in.
It’s about how far you’re willing to go to claim it.

Claiming genderless shopping isn’t a political statement, it’s a practical one. For plus-size bodies, access has always been limited. Racks end early. Sizing is inconsistent. Imagination stops where we begin. So we learn to look wider. We get creative because we have to. Expanding how and where we shop isn’t rebellion, it’s resourcefulness. When the industry refuses to design with us in mind, creativity becomes the language of survival. Genderless shopping isn’t optional for plus-size people; it’s how we reclaim choice in a system that never planned to include us.

Because that advice was never really about fashion.
It was about comfort.
Not mine theirs 🤨

From a young age, I was taught there were colors I should stay away from. Not because they clashed with my skin or didn’t suit my style, but because I wasn’t considered the “right” body type for them. Yellow, for example, was labeled too excessive for me. Too loud. Too much. Because I was big. Yet yellow complemented my complexion beautifully.
Funny how the rules shift when people decide you’re FAT.

Black isn’t celebrated because it’s inherently stylish.
It’s celebrated because it minimizes.
It flattens.
It helps fat bodies take up less visual space in a world that’s already uncomfortable with us being seen at all. But who said I wanted to be sidelined, reduced to the background, existing quietly for the comfort of others?

And that’s what bothers me most is the way fatness overrides everything else. Suddenly, your skin tone, your culture, your personality, your joy don’t matter. You’re handed one uniform, one set of rules, one narrow lane in which you’re allowed to exist. Fat culture becomes a monolith imposed onto people, not something we actually choose.

So I have questions.

Why is fatness treated as an aesthetic failure instead of a neutral trait?

Why are fat people styled for disappearance instead of expression?

Why does being fat cancel out individuality like we all want the same silhouettes, the same dark colors, the same invisibility?

Because wearing only black “for your body type” isn’t advice.
It’s a quiet demand to shrink, to blend in & to make others more comfortable with your existence. And that, to me, is fatphobia dressed up as concern.

My whimsical style and love of color exist to trash those expectations. I want bigger bodies to feel safe experimenting with shapes, silhouettes, and color. Color is expressive. It’s joyful. It’s playful which is what fashion is truly about.

We dress for the inner child who never felt safe enough to experiment because of judgment. We challenge ourselves to wear that piece not because it makes us look slimmer, but because we LIKE IT. Because it aligns with our values and our joy.

And if I wear black, it’s not to hide or fit in.
It’s because the piece itself is interesting not because I’m trying to disappear.

Ever since I can remember, fashion has intrigued me. From interning at magazine publications to assisting stylists, I fell deeply in love with this world even though I never saw anyone who looked like me. I wasn’t represented, but I was determined to become the representation I wanted to see.

There has always been a quiet why attached to my love for an industry that often felt like it despised me because of my size. But that why became my fuel.

I went from working behind the scenes to standing in front of the camera. From fashion spectator to “fashion influencer” almost overnight. My unique perspective and personal style began to catch the attention of major players in high fashion. From starring in a Pride campaign hand-picked by Rihanna for Savage X Fenty, to appearing on Times Square billboards with Instagram, to fragrance campaigns with Paco Rabanne I finally started to feel seen.

Creating my own table and a safe space for plus-size people to exist unapologetically in fashion led to features in major publications. And yet, even after all of that, I still sometimes feel like an outsider.

And as uncomfortable as it is to admit, maybe that’s because fashion wasn’t created with people like me in mind. In influencer spaces, it’s supposedly all about numbers, but it often feels like it’s also about weight. Even if that’s never said out loud, it’s an unspoken truth. You’re constantly judged by how you look, and it pressures people to change themselves just to be accepted or to be treated as “normal.”

Maybe that’s why I still feel like I’m on the outside looking in.

I sometimes wonder: if I fit the stereotypical size of a “fashion influencer,” would I feel more accepted? Would the success I gained so quickly have doubled? Would the feedback shift from I love your style to something more… validating?

But I refuse to fit in when I was born to stand out.

Being excluded doesn’t stop me from showing up it pushes me to go harder. Because I know I’m standing for something bigger than myself. My size should not define my place in fashion. There is so much more to me than that.

I’m an innovator.
A tastemaker.
And proof that fashion’s boundaries can and will expand.

Breaking the fourth wall is necessary, and it’s something I will continue to do simply by existing. I will not dim my light to belong somewhere that demands my disappearance.

Maybe that’s why I’ve always felt like an outsider because I was never meant to be a spectator.

I was meant to be on stage.

And the stage will see me.

Xoxo,
Army 💋

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