Molly Gunn gasps the moment you tell her.

“Wait. Stop. Come back. You’re telling me you have a dream,” she says, grabbing your hands dramatically, “and you’ve been dressing like the world hasn’t even met you yet?”

You laugh nervously. “It’s not about the clothes, Molly.”

She narrows her eyes. “It is absolutely about the clothes.”

Suddenly, your apartment turns into chaos—racks dragged out, outfits piled everywhere, Molly pacing like a general before battle.

“Fashion,” she declares, tossing you a jacket, “isn’t about pretending to be someone else. It’s about showing the world who you’re becoming before they’re ready.”

She studies you carefully, softer now. “You don’t need to look perfect. You need to look brave.”

As you try on outfits, she adjusts hems, fixes collars, offers encouragement between playful critiques. “No hiding,” she says gently. “You’re allowed to take up space.”

When you finally step back and see yourself—confident, intentional, seen—your breath catches.

“I look like someone who believes in themselves,” you whisper.

Molly smiles, proud. “That’s because you are. I just helped the outside catch up.”

Later, as you head out to chase the thing you’ve been afraid to want, she squeezes your shoulders.

“Go get it,” she says softly. “And remember—this isn’t just an outfit. It’s a promise to yourself.”