Soliloquies Anthology 30.1

by Cate Murphy

As we get older, we’re told to expect transformation—new clothes, new hair, new friends, new interests. A whole curated rebrand every few years. People love to say their past selves are “unrecognizable,” as if they’ve undergone a dramatic before-and-after reveal. But what about the parts that stubbornly refuse to change? There are pieces of us that burrow so deep into our foundation that they become untouchable. I’ve always found a strange comfort in that. No matter how much I evolve, there will always be a small, unpolished fragment that remains exactly as it was. And in a world where everyone is busy refining themselves into something palatable, those fragments are the most interesting thing about us.

The other day, I found myself in my favourite vintage shop, casually browsing, as one does when they are both bored and financially irresponsible. Halfway down an aisle, I spotted a pair of metallic sneakers. Now, I’ve never liked metallic shoes. I’ve been quite vocal about this, actually. They are, in my professional opinion, deeply offensive. But a few days earlier, I’d seen someone who I thought to be impossibly cool wearing the exact same pair. Suddenly, there I was, holding them, thinking, these are absolutely hideous, and placing them into my cart with alarming confidence.

Reader, I bought the shoes.

They now sit in my closet, unworn, like a monument to my temporary lapse in judgment. Every time I look at them, I’m reminded of how far we’ll go to manufacture effortlessness. The irony, of course, is that nothing says “trying too hard” quite like buying shoes you dislike. I can’t even remember the last time I wasn’t, on some level, performing, adjusting, curating, or fine-tuning myself to fit a version of cool that belongs to someone else. And that’s when I started thinking about my thirteen-year-old self. She had no interest in being cool. She had interests, full stop. She loved things loudly, and if you happened to like those things too, then congratulations—you were cool by association. Now, it feels like I’ve flipped sides entirely, trying to squeeze myself into other people’s worlds in the hope that I’ll be granted access.

So, in an attempt to recalibrate, I’ve decided to consult the ultimate authority on personal style and charisma, my thirteen-year-old self. Here is her definitive guide to being the chicest person alive:

1. Go to horse camp. This is non-negotiable. Develop a concerning obsession with horses. Beg your parents to send you to a summer camp where you will spend your days riding them and your evenings pretending to be them. Yes, the term “horse girl” has since been weaponized, but that’s only because society fears what it cannot understand.

2. Play a lot of tennis. Ideally, an unreasonable amount. It doesn’t matter if you’re the youngest person on the court by several decades. The goal isn’t skill, it’s commitment. Bonus points if you dramatically chase the balls that were clearly out of reach.

3. Play the lead in a play. I was a devoted drama kid who never quite secured the lead role, which only made it more glamorous in my mind. Being on stage felt like the highest possible form of existence. If it’s a musical, even better. If you can sing, wonderful. If you can’t, confidence will carry you.

4. Read as many books as you can. No elaboration needed. Reading is, was, and always will be incredibly chic.

5. Start a wildly unnecessary collection. Rocks, keychains, postcards, random trinkets that serve absolutely no purpose? Doesn’t matter, what matters is the devotion. Display them proudly. Speak about them as if you are curating a museum. The more niche, the better.

Looking back, what strikes me isn’t how objectively “cool” any of these things are, it’s how much I wholeheartedly loved them. There was no calculation, and definitely no quiet comparison. Just joy, pursued with embarrassing sincerity. Somewhere along the way, I traded that in for self-consciousness and a pair of metallic sneakers I refuse to wear. And so, I will be spending time trying to get back that version of myself. That doesn’t mean that I’ll be going to horse camp over the summer or that you’ll find me in a lead play anytime soon, but I will be channeling the way that I used to only care about the things that I loved. I think everyone should channel their thirteen year old selves once in a while, if more than anything just to keep us grounded, because what a crazy, unhinged age.