Chapter 4: I’d Like to Be the Cherry Lane Theatre

Madonna, losing my keys, filler and what Cherry Lane taught me about mistakes

Every week I write about what’s happening in my life: love, work, identity, as I figure out how to be a real person, not just someone chasing the algorithm.

This weekend I lost my keys.

I was taking selfies in my lobby, as one does on a casual Saturday morning. The lobby has a gorgeous maroon marble table you’d expect to see at Raf’s, forgiving lighting, and the kind of mirror that really hits. Hours later, when I got back from my lazy wandering and couldn’t find my keys, panic set in. The quick kind that takes over your body before your brain can negotiate.

I retraced every step like I was solving a TikTok murder: the dry cleaners, where they even pulled up surveillance footage so I could study which hand the keys were in. There I was, glued to my phone, watching MrBeast talk about his YouTube subscriber journey like it was scripture. Then I went to FedEx and begged them to reopen a package — a pair of Loewe sneakers I’d sold on Vestiaire, a decision I’m still emotionally processing — in case the keys had fallen into a shoe. They hadn’t.

Eventually I went back to Sézane, one of those chic 2025 brands that refuses to have a phone number, so you have to physically return. Still nothing. Defeated, I finally sent the dreaded text: Hi, I lost my keys.

And then I found them. Sitting on the maroon marble counter. Exactly where the mirror forgave me hours before.

I misplace things when I’m distracted, inside my head, which is often. Part of the reckoning you and I are going through right now is me figuring out how to use the brain I was given and still survive. Wait, I mean thrive. I live in there. It’s where I write stories, build brands, connect invisible dots most people can’t see. But it’s also what causes chaos in the physical world.

A lost pair of keys doesn’t really upset me. They’re just keys. What gets me is needing to ask for help.

I was horrified to text my landlords because I still brace for punishment when I make a mistake, as if being human means someone’s about to leave. I almost didn’t text at all. I thought it might be safer to move to another city. Then I did, and they replied, “No worries!” Two words that hit harder than most apologies I’ve ever given myself.

It’s wild how something as small as a text about lost keys can reveal all the ways you still don’t feel safe being human.

I skipped Cynthia this week and got filler in my smile lines instead. Based on the hyper-analysis of the keys situation, this was a sus decision. Sometimes I just want to pay someone to fix what hurts to look at. I know the real healing has to come from within, but a needle every now and then feels like it’s my birthday. I’m two years into my spiritual journey, and while I feel like a different person, I know it’ll take time to physically arrive there.

This week I listened to Madonna on Jay Shetty’s podcast, a woman twenty-seven years into her becoming. Madonna was the first concert I ever went to. I’ve never heard anyone articulate peace so precisely. Her brain is a painting of a future I’d love to live in.

She said, “Everyone thinks I’m strong because I’ve survived everything, but I’m strong because I’ve been humiliated more times than I can count and I kept showing up anyway. You don’t do it from revenge; you do it because if you disappear, they win, and more importantly, you lose the chance to become who you actually are. Pain isn’t proof that you’re cursed; it’s proof that you’re still alive, that you still care. Use it. Turn it into something. Make art, make noise, make meaning.”

Here is my new goal: turn my mistakes into meaning instead of proof I’m broken.

A few nights later I had dinner at A24’s newest acquisition, Wild Cherry, inside the Cherry Lane Theatre. It’s run by the Frenchette and Le Veau D’Or team, one of my favorite restaurant groups in the city. Cherry Lane is the oldest Off-Broadway theatre in New York, around since 1924, tucked behind trees on Commerce Street. It’s where people have been telling the truth out loud for a hundred years. The last show I saw there was Neal Brennan’s Unacceptable in 2021.

A24 gave it a martini-and-steak-for-two kind of facelift. Branded candy, soft lighting, that signature mix of irony and intimacy. But they didn’t erase what makes it vulnerable. They just gave it a cool logo.

As I drank my martini and bit into my olive, which had celery in it (something I didn’t know was a thing), it fit the vibe perfectly. Unexpected, delicious, quietly confident. I thought about the kind of bravery it takes to really own your mistakes and turn them into art, to put your flaws on stage instead of hiding them.

People read my essays and think, uh oh, is she OK? But like Cherry Lane, I like saying the truth out loud, the things we’re all afraid to speak. If I tell you the worst thing about myself, you might recognize something in you too. I just don’t know if I’m ready to say them on stage yet. This Substack still feels like I’m hiding a bit, probably because I’m typing to you in sweatpants with chicken and rice next to my chair.

Although something inside me feels different this week, like a warm glow I can’t name yet.

So yes, I’ll still take selfies for proof of life. But I know the work isn’t to stop losing things, it’s to believe nothing terrible happens when you tell the truth about it. The truth just might get you an A24 rebrand and your own custom bonbon candy.

somehow, functioning,
Jilly