The Art of being Uncool

I am not a cool person.

Let’s just get that out of the way.

I’m not the one people instinctively gravitate toward at parties. I’m not the friend who’s always in the middle of the group photo or the one whose Instagram stories look like they’re curated by a brand manager. If you’ve ever seen someone lingering by the snack table at an event, pretending to be interested in the small chops because they don’t know how to break into a conversation, that’s probably me. I’m just… regular. Like plain toast. Maybe with some butter, on a good day.

Small Talk Is My Nemesis.

I’ve tried, trust me. I’ve gone to networking events with my best “I’m here to connect!” smile. I’ve rehearsed lines in my head before walking into a room. But there’s always that moment, that slight pause when someone says, “So, what do you do?” and my brain does a full system reboot. Suddenly, I forget what I do, why I came, and if I even know how to speak in full sentences.

It’s not that I don’t like people. I really do. I’m just more of a slow-burn type of person. You probably won’t remember me after the first meeting, but give it three more and I’ll surprise you with how much I paid attention. I’ll remember your favourite tea or the obscure band no one’s ever heard about that you mentioned in passing. I’m just not wired for surface-level charm. I thrive in the in-between moments.

We live in a time where presence is everything. Digital or otherwise. Be bold. Be magnetic. Be seen. But I think there’s something quietly rebellious about letting yourself not be impressive. To show up as your full, awkward, weird, clumsy, beautiful self without needing to be interesting all the time.

So no, I’m not cool. But I’m sincere. I care deeply. I write notes on my phone about the most random things. I get emotionally attached to fictional characters. I leave parties early, but text you later to say I had a great time. I’m a person who loves watching the world unfold from a slightly quieter seat.

Despite the quiet pride I take in observing from the sidelines, I sometimes really wish I were cool.

Sometimes I do want to be the person who walks into a room and is immediately handed the aux cord. I want to be the one people text, “Are you coming?” not because they need a headcount, but because the party is a little less fun without me. Because things feel different without me. I want to be confidently chaotic. I want to slay, as the kids say. But then I remember that I once tripped over absolutely nothing at a restaurant and muttered “sorry” to the floor.