I don't want to be cool, I just want to be me

I don’t have an aesthetic corner of my flat, it’s actually drowning in a mess because I’m heartbroken and navigating through the lack of hunger of it all. I write in my bed even before I brush my teeth and my glasses are dirty and my blanket peeking out of the end of the bed linen pisses me off.

I made myself some tea earlier but it’s probably all cold now, none of this is romantic at all. Just another dish to clean, sitting in my sink. I haven’t touched the book I said I was reading in two weeks. I don’t even remember what it is about anymore. I rot in bed when I should be productive. For days on end.

Being online feels relatable until it is not. Every morning routine looks curated, put together. I woke up like this and it’s flawless faces and annoyingly pretty hair. Everybody is so cool. And somehow, everybody is in Paris. Expensive hairbrush and designer make-up on the sink of their exquisite Airbnb bathroom.

Cool. Rolls off the tongue with a promise of effortless belonging. It’s Logan Lerman’s girlfriend who is not only drop-dead gorgeous but also a cool ceramic artist and designer. (I’m obsessed.) It’s Orion Carloto who dresses well and writes in all the aesthetic rooms in the world. (I’m obsessed.) It’s Ashley (@bestdressed) who was my favourite YouTuber who spoke openly about sex, and now lives her dream in fashion. (I’m obsessed.) It’s Chloe Gong who became a bestselling author at a young age and now lives in New York City writing for a living. (I’m obsessed.) Somehow I want to be like all of them.

But chasing cool is like chasing a shadow: the closer you get, the more it slips away. What the fuck is cool anyway? Are we stuck in school or something? Can I not admire someone without wanting to become them?

The world of cool is a world of mirrors: it demands reflection, imitation, and the careful curation of an image that fits someone else’s mould. To be cool is to step into a role, to adopt the right clothes, even the right music, or the right opinions. It’s an endless performance, an exhausting dance. We don’t even realise this, do we? We’re happy to adapt. And for what? A fleeting sense of approval, a nod from strangers who don’t really see you at all?

I’ve followed the scripts. I felt like a ghost haunting my own life. The coolness I craved came at the cost of authenticity, and the applause felt hollow because it wasn’t really for me. I spent majority of school and university like this.

So I strip away the layers of borrowed identities. Who am I when no one is looking? What makes my heart beat truly? The answers aren’t at all that glamorous, frankly. I’m someone who cries at movies I’ve seen a hundred times (Paddington). Someone who loves the smell of old books I’m not buying and the feel of sunlight on my skin in the depths of the depressing German winter. Someone who finds the cracks and quirks of life cool —in the mismatched socks in my drawer that I never touch or throw away, the off-key singing at house parties, the doodles in the margins of second-hand books.

And what if I’m not cool with my social awkwardness, my introversion in groups, my seemingly boring passions, my secret peculiarities. If I can laugh too loud snorting, dress for comfort. Who cares, really?

There’s a quiet power in authenticity. When you stop trying to be what others expect, or you expect from yourself, you make space for real connection. The people who matter, the ones who see you and adore you for who you are, don’t care about cool. They care about the sparkle in your eyes when you talk about something you love. They care about your kindness, your honesty.

Every time I choose to be me, I feel a little freer. I’m no longer weighed down by the need to impress or conform. I can be fucking annoying and needy and not at all The Cool Girl, not even The Cool Girlfriend, but it hurts more not to live my truth. That feels like breathing fresh air after years in a crowded room, like stepping out of a function for a smoke.

I want to be the person who stops to watch the sunset, who writes desperate letters I’ll never send, who dreams with my eyes wide open on the tram, who leaves her flat a mess before going on a trip. I want to be messy and real and stupid.

I don’t want to be cool. I just want to be me.