Confused Is the New Cool — Just Make It Look Deliberate

The other day I found myself standing in front of the mirror, swapping shirts for what felt like the hundredth time. Meanwhile, the tee I actually wanted to wear was still hanging damp in the bathroom. Around me — pure chaos. The kind familiar to anyone trying to master that supposedly effortless “just threw this on” look. I wasn’t off to a red carpet or a job interview — just out for a drink. Saturday night. Same people, different lighting. The place pretends to be brand new, but we all know exactly where the loos are. And as I buttoned up the third shirt of the night, I caught myself quietly overthinking who else might be there, what they’d be wearing, and whether I should actually feel relaxed — or just look relaxed.

I used to know.  Or at least I thought I did — how to button a shirt right up to the top and still look like I hadn’t even tried. I knew how to say the right thing at the right time, and smile just enough to make it stick.

And right there, between a glance or two in the mirror, something properly strange kicked in. In the quiet shuffle from Don’t Call Tonight to Shadow of a Man — and somewhere between my Is this too much? and Is this enough? — I caught myself wondering if I was actually trying to look cool for people.

I used to think being cool came from within — a feeling, an energy. It wasn’t something you could just put on like clothes; it was something you carried, something that seeped out from inside. You were simply yourself, and that was enough. These days? It feels like there’s this quiet, unspoken code about what it actually means to be cool. And the irony is, there aren’t any real rules — just an endless list of it’d be good ifs: where nothing’s ever quite enough, yet everything still has to look like it is.

I caught myself staring at my reflection — not to fix my hair or check the angle, but as if I were trying to see what everyone else sees when they look at me. And that’s when I started to lose myself a bit.

What happens to style when you stop liking yourself?

This isn’t just a fashion dilemma. It’s an identity crisis in an aestheticised world. We’re no longer just people — we’re profiles, formats, colour palettes.

When did other people’s eyes become the mirror we dress for? When did I start wearing things I wasn’t even sure I liked? And when did I actually stop being cool?

I started wondering what people saw in me, rather than what I felt inside. And I didn’t know how to fix it. All I knew was that something had frayed — not from wear, but from the constant gaze.

Because these days, we watch each other as if we’re always under the spotlight. In the lift, in the pub, in messages. At work, on dates, on the street. Sometimes I can’t tell if I’m actually having a real conversation, or just playing my part. And I don’t know whether I’m trying to impress someone — or simply making it through the day without doubting myself.

The paradox of modern style is that we all look like we don’t care — yet, in reality, we’ve never been more afraid of getting it wrong.

And I know I’m not the only one. We all have those quiet conversations with ourselves before we go out — questions with no clear answers. Will I look like I’m trying too hard? Am I too dressed up for the crowd I’m with? Or not enough? Have I stopped being myself just to fit in?

At some point, life became like a night out where I’ve tried on every outfit — yet none of them quite fits the version of me I’m meant to be.

In the effort to be noticed — but not too much. To catch the eye — without raising eyebrows. To be authentic — yet somehow still belong. Somewhere in those quiet calculations, we lose ourselves. And once you’ve lost that, nothing ever really sits right on you. Because you can’t wear what you don’t feel.

And maybe that’s what worries me most. Not that I don’t know what to wear — but that I no longer know who I’m dressing for. It’s become exhausting. And sad. And confusing. Is a smile enough these days? Do you need to know who Marc Forné is to have taste — or can you wear your old school hoodie and still be real?

Am I still cool — if I’m not trying anymore?

Maybe it’s because I’ve become too aware of everything. Aware of how my colleague looks at me when I say I’m rushing home to watch Femke Bol run the 400m hurdles. People have started calling me “quirky” or “a bit out there”, and I’m never quite sure if it’s a compliment or a quiet dig. I know I’m somewhere between wanting to be seen — and being tired of being watched.

And then I start wondering — did we stop being cool the moment we became endlessly self-conscious?

I’m sitting on the floor by the heater, the evenings still chilly, a mug of chocolate milk warming in my left hand — even though I don’t like it hot. I remember being told, time and again, that I was “my own person”. But now, I’m not so sure what that even means anymore. Because when you spend days immersed in other people’s thoughts, images, dreams, and plans — what’s left of your own?

We’ve become people who dress for others. No one ever says it out loud, but we’re all playing the game of impressions — a game where, if you’re not careful, you forget what you actually like.

Because being cool — truly, inexplicably cool — was never about matching colours, the latest pair of trainers, or having a signature scent. It was about ease. About not trying too hard. About knowing you didn’t have to be everything.

Cool isn’t about attitude anymore — it’s become a costume. And it’s no longer just about knowing how to dress. It’s about knowing how to show up. How to walk into a room and carry what you’ve got — with your body, your gaze, your actions, your words, your ideas.

Let’s be honest — you can tell when someone looks expensive but hasn’t the faintest idea what to do with it. And you can tell when someone walks in wearing a plain tee as if they’ve got the entire Louvre stitched to their back.

But today, everything feels like a fight to be something. And not just anything — but that something. The kind that draws attention, yet never raises questions. That feels authentic, but remains safe. Bold, but not loud. Urban, but never try-hard. And somewhere in there — between pressure and performance — we lost the quiet space where identity didn’t need an explanation.

Sometimes, even when I’m with the people I love, I realise how hard we all try — not to impress, but not to disappoint. Not others — ourselves. These are the scenarios where we look like we’ve got it all together. A picture in someone else’s eyes.

And somewhere along the way, style stopped happening in front of the mirror —

and started being staged for the impression we hope to leave. But when life turns into a performance, you end up forgetting what you ever wanted to say in the first place.

That, I think, is the real trouble. We’ve forgotten the difference between freedom — and the performance of it. Between being cool — and merely looking like you are.

I’ll admit it — I forgot. In trying to be all those things that sound nice on paper — mature but fun, calm but not dull, grown-up but not old — I forgot how to just be me.

And only when, in a rush, I slipped on those old socks with the crazy patterns and went to the meeting without overthinking it —

well, someone told me, for the first time in ages, “I like you like that, mate.” And I smiled. Maybe that’s what being cool is.

Because really — how do you measure cool these days? By counting likes? By the crowd that’s watching? Or maybe by the feeling that you’re simply “yourself”, even when no one’s around?

Maybe it’s enough to just stop measuring.

To stop conditioning yourself through someone else’s eyes. Maybe it’s enough to know you’re whole — even when you don’t feel flawless. Maybe it’s enough to wear what lets you breathe. And to remember that even if someone else looks better — it doesn’t make you any less.

Maybe being cool isn’t about what we wear or what we say — but about what we choose not to hide. What we allow to be seen. And maybe the real question these days isn’t how to be cool — but how to be at peace with ourselves.

To stop overthinking everything I say. To stop checking three times if my jeans look right. To keep my laugh, even if it turns a few heads. To wear the jumpers my exes left behind. To stop apologising for feeling things deeply.

Maybe I don’t know how to be cool anymore because I’m tired of pretending. I’m tired of looking fine while falling apart inside. I’m tired of making sure I’m authentic — but not too much.

Not to flinch when someone sees me as I am. Not to feel silly about the odd bag or the quiet need to leave before midnight. Just to sit with my tiredness — and the soft hope that things don’t have to be spectacular to be real.

Maybe I’m not cool these days.

But I’m in love with myself.

And for the first time, honestly, that feels like enough.