Chapter 12: Holding My Life Up With Socks

double texting, mortality and the strange feeling that I might be alive

​​This week I shoved socks under my boobs before going to a party.

Not in a sexy way — though I guess that depends who you ask. The kind of move you make when you’re trying to manufacture confidence with whatever is available in your apartment.

I stood in front of the mirror thinking: if my life is going to feel uncertain, at least my boobs can feel supported.

I’m exposed on every front at once.

Romantically: I reached.
Professionally: the story isn’t shiny.
Socially: I can’t control the narrative.

For most of my adult life, I survived by being able to say one simple thing: There is a plan for my life.

I’ll make content. Start businesses. Make money. Fall in love at the correct time. Get married in a devastating beautiful Mugler piece. Have children in Tribeca as a career woman with a double stroller. Even when things were chaotic, there was always a storyline. A forward-facing explanation. Something I could point to and say, relax, it’s building.

Right now, I can confidently tell you I have no idea what my life is going to look like.

Not because nothing is happening, but because whatever is happening doesn’t come with a headline. There’s no carousel post with “big changes 🕊️” and a comment section full of congratulations.

Of course I want things. In fact, my desire feels almost offensively alive right now. I want love. I want sex. I want a book deal (and yes, I will tell you that every week). But for the first time, I don’t feel like I need to know the direction of my life. TikTok astrologer Tali is losing his grip on me. Don’t worry, Cynthia will stay forever, but for once, I’m not asking her to fix me.

Will I fall in love? Will I have a child on my own? Will my writing turn into something bigger than a Substack and a dinner reservation?

I’m deeply uncomfortable with uncertainty. And the universe is forcing me to surrender.

So I’m just… here. Unwrapped.

Which is probably why I double texted that man. “Would love to see you again.” I spiraled for twenty-four hours and then realized: this is living.

I don’t think I’ve double texted since I was drunk at Boston University after Marathon Monday, emotionally unstable, wearing a romper that should have been illegal. I don’t put my cards on the table. They’re usually stacked neatly in the box, all accounted for. The queen of hearts never missing.

But this time, I let a man see me wanting. No irony. No strategic delay. No “haha just kidding.”

I reached.

And when he didn’t respond, my nervous system didn’t just register romantic rejection, it registered exposure. Of course he ignored you, my brain said. Look at you. No shine. No buffer. No storyline. No proof of arrival.

But then… it didn’t land like you suck. It landed like: oh. This is the cover charge.

Then I went to a birthday party where I knew I would see everyone I’ve ever crossed paths with in New York. Work people, Hamptons people, a weird late night from Paul’s Baby Grand. The kind of faces that make you realize New York is both massive and claustrophobic at the same time.

My social anxiety was off the charts. I almost didn’t go. But I put on the strapless dress. I committed to the socks.

My nervous system treated the possibility of being judged like it was the final boss of my entire self-worth. I acted like I was preparing for war, when really I was preparing to stand near a DJ booth and scream into someone’s ear, “I LOVE THIS SONG!”

When a friend from ten years ago asked for an update, I didn’t package anything in a bow. I just said: I don’t really know what’s going on with my life. And instead of feeling embarrassed, I felt strangely… fine. The a Polaroid artist asked to take my photo and then tried to slow dance with me. I said, gotta run.

It feels weird to move through life with no storyline. Everyone you meet has an identity based on their job, their love life, their neighborhood, their clothes. We all want to be defined. Placed in a category we want to be perceived by. Something we can tie up in an Instagram bio bow.

Founder.
Mother.
Wife.
Brat.
Skincare minimalist with a French bob.
Corporate baddie with a matcha addiction.

It almost makes other people more comfortable when they know where you fit. But what happens when you have none of that?

Who are you in 2026 without a headline?

I saw the news about James Van Der Beek this week. It hit me hard. He’s 48. My aunt died of lung cancer at 42. I think about her every day.

And I found myself wondering: what am I doing being so afraid of being seen? Of being wanted? Of being rejected? Of being unfinished?

If the whole point is that we get one life, why am I spending mine trying to be impressive enough to deserve it?

The very thing I’ve been fighting my whole life is the idea that I could be lovable just as me. Not as potential. Not as momentum. Not as future wife, future founder, future something.

Just me.

And weirdly, this is also the moment I’ve been asking for.

I said I wanted to live.
I said I wanted to feel desire.
I said I wanted to be present instead of managing the narrative.

Well — this is what that costs.

You don’t get to control how you’re perceived.
You don’t get to edit the scene after it happens.
You don’t get to be both untouchable and alive.

So no, this isn’t a tragedy. And it’s not a comeback story either.

It’s an adjustment.

Which might be the most honest chapter yet.

Somehow, functioning,
Jilly