the art of trying
I'm still on that tightrope
Akin to biting my nails, I have a bad habit of thinking in absolutes. I’ve always thought coolness was something you could either get right or wrong.
The winter I turned fourteen, I wanted to be beautiful, striking, a rebellion of my own making. My inspiration was Nicole Kidman overlooking Baz Luhrmann’s sparkling Paris in Moulin Rouge!, her long, red follicles spilling down her shoulders. My hair was too thick for one box of hair dye, so my mother and I returned to the drugstore and bought another. It felt like a rite of passage, to be given the gift of transformation.
At school, my science teacher called me “Big Red” and not “Satine.” I didn’t find my nickname clever or charming, seeing that there was nothing big about me, especially my barely five-foot stature.
That spring we stripped the red flames from my hair. They faded into a palette of strawberry blondes. The final stop was yellow. The bleach burned my scalp, a reminder that I couldn’t return to who I was before.
**
I’ve been thinking a lot about my relationship with social media and the topic of genuinity. TikTok has made everything so much more diaristic, with fads as mundane as showing off what your nightstand looks like gaining notoriety and fading out just as quickly. The act of seeing something and making it your own is addictive. I don’t have room to criticize it though, because I can admit that I find beauty and comfort in the fact that we all live each day differently. I love showing how the world looks through my point of view. Our routines and idiosyncrasies make us who we are, trendy or not.
I got my first real smartphone when I was going into my junior year of high school—a Droid Razr M. Before that, I was using my mom’s old BlackBerry. I was heartbroken when it died, because carrying it around with me made me feel like Carrie Bradshaw. I would check my emails (mostly promotional emails from Forever21) and use BBM to text my friends, as if I had somewhere to be. But I was excited that a new phone meant that I would finally have Instagram.
I went on a joyride. I was posting multiple times a day, and once the novelty wore off, I paced myself.
Self-expression can be so gratifying, but it can also feel like a virtual cage, with everyone holding a magnifying glass to your posts. Once, while still in high school, a guy in my friend group said to me “Grace, I counted and you have nineteen pictures of coffee on your Instagram.” I laughed it off at the time (and still do now…because, nineteen coffees) but it was catalytic in making me feel like I had to water down my enthusiasm about small, arbitrary things I enjoyed, even in conversation.
One comment that was misogynistic in its delivery shouldn’t have dismayed me, but the fear of embarrassment sometimes still takes precedence over creating and putting myself out there, even in my mid-twenties. And then I worry about my fear of embarrassment unintentionally being worn like an exoskeleton.
When I find myself in a spiral, I can’t help but envy who I was as a child—who circled catalogs with glitter gel pens, refused to wear anything that wasn’t pink or covered in rhinestones, and didn’t fear being ridiculous, cringe, or untalented. She only lived to grow up, to keep discovering things she loved.
**
This essay has had many beginnings and middles, but the inspiration remained the same.
I’m extremely late, but “mirrorball” from Taylor Swift’s folklore album has been resonating with me, specifically the line “I’ve never been a natural, all I do is try, try, try.” It’s insane to me that this was one of my skip songs for so long—because it conveys a message about self-perception that I’ve had so much trouble articulating—a deep desire to be noticed, to be perceived as impressive or admirable or both, whether it be in-person or online—and all the ways I’ve tried.
This isn’t revolutionary news, but I know now that trying is a good thing, a form of vulnerability—even if there are spectators. I still feel like I’m on a tightrope when I sit at my desk trying to chip away at this, trying to sound coherent, but I’ll keep at it regardless.
Who am I to hold myself back? Raquel of Solitary Daughter, one of my favorite newsletters, said it best:
…the point is to do the things you spend the rest of your time daydreaming about doing. To be able to make something, or to observe a piece of work made by someone else, and understand its inner parts, to know what makes it tick just by looking at it… That’s the skill developed only by time, patience, and practice. - bitter & bold beginnings
**
J and I tried (and failed) to pace ourselves when Season 2 of The Bear came out earlier this year, just barely stretching it over a couple of days. While it was a well-done season that explored the complexities of C-PTSD, the claustrophobic pressure cooker that is the service industry, and generational trauma, the sole lighthearted element that glued everything together was self-confidence. Character redemption arcs were consistent and provided a temporary, pleasant distraction from the noise that Carmy (Jeremy Allen White) was dealing with.
One of the standout episodes was the penultimate, titled “Forks.” Richie (Ebon Moss-Bachrach) is sent to shadow at a Michelin star restaurant. He doesn’t get it and only feels resentful. But as soon as he’s promoted from polishing silverware in the kitchen to being on the floor at the end of the week, white coat to black suit, everything clicks into place. When he gets back to Carmy and the gang, he’s not wearing his usual T-shirt and jeans.
“I wear suits now,” he says unabashedly, for the rest of the season.
Maybe that’s what coolness is—discovering what has always been there, being brave enough to bring it to the light and not worrying if you’ll fail.
