At the time, I approached healthy living with a frenetic evangelism. I emerged out of a party girl stupor in the back-half of my twenties with a permanent hangover, a dearth of purpose, and a startling lack of boundaries. I had excelled at working hard and building a big network (which mostly involved drinking), having graduated from a Big 10 university into Hollywood assistant bedlam.

But as my prefrontal cortex came online, it was like someone suddenly turned on the overhead lights. Who made this mess? I muttered to myself as I picked up the pieces of my life like dirty clothes off the floor, examining them with curious disdain and scrunching my nose in disgust. I felt an increasing urgency to gut reno my life into something more sustainable, mission-driven, and regenerative. Enter: wellness.

When people call Los Angeles an industry town, they usually mean the entertainment industry. But it’s just as much, if not more, a city centered around the business of selling you a very particular version of “well.” Simply by living in the LA soup for long enough, I absorbed much of its wellness doctrine. And then, in my quest for health and meaning, I became an active student.

I found chisel-cheeked gals with lusciously thick, proof-of-concept hair who told me exactly what to buy and what to avoid. I listened to podcasts that extolled the importance of wearing non-toxic makeup and synthetic-free clothing. I cut out most refined carbs. Ate organic, grass-fed meat whenever possible. Went on bone broth cleanses, smoothie cleanses, parasite cleanses. Took so many supplements, I had to buy a day-of-the-week pill organizer. I paid thousands of dollars to become a certified health coach and even worked for a wellness influencer. When the pandemic hit and I relocated to San Francisco for a year, I became even more militant, cutting out all alcohol and going to bed at 10pm every night. And I waited, patiently, for the bliss I was promised to hit.

But that bliss never quite came. I felt guilty for indulging, anxious if I stayed out too late, and regretful if I ate something that wasn’t organic. At certain points, it became easier to turn down social invitations than risk my fragile routine. And while, of course, there were habits that did make me feel better (you’ll never see me maligning a nutrient-rich diet and good sleep hygiene)1, the level of rigidity I had subscribed to was all rather chaste and isolating. There’s something a bit sexless about prioritizing discipline over pleasure, again and again and again.

And, it turned out, a fair chunk of it was a grift. Many of the supplements I took didn’t do anything discernible. Some even gave me weird side effects that shan’t be revealed in this public forum. My lord and savior Mountain Valley Spring Water, which claimed to be “purely sourced and free of pollutants,” was eventually sued when heavy metals and other contaminants were detected in their products. I followed all the rules, yet did not feel the vitality I was promised.

Fueled by my burgeoning disillusionment, I began to loosen my grip on radical wellness. I dared to snack on non-organic berries and gave up caring about seed oils at restaurants. Eventually, I fell in love and moved in with a man who gently called out my more dogmatic beliefs and reignited my love for the occasional Taco Bell Crunchwrap Supreme. And as I drifted towards a more balanced middle-point, color started to come back into my cheeks.

But it wasn’t until I moved to New York that I was really able to challenge my framework for healthy living. New York is, classically, LA’s rambunctious foil. It’s martinis at happy hour and late night pizza and no sleep and hard work. But it’s also invigoratingly communal and serious about pleasure. Art and music and long dinners and dancing are not only revered, but prioritized. And as I began to embrace the city’s delightful hedonism, I found my way back to the dance floor.

The old me had convinced herself that staying out past midnight was frivolous and even a bit sinful. I shuddered to think how the lack of sleep would impact my health, my energy, and yes, my ability to perform under capitalism (how else would I buy expensive water, you see?). But a break-up in the spring helped shake the last sticky bits of my resistance free. Heartbroken and more open than usual, I agreed to venture into the New York night with old friends from college.

The nightclub was steamy and pulsing with laser lights and the body hunger of twenty-two- year-olds. I hadn’t been out like this in ages. The DJ didn’t even start his set until 1am, an outrageous prospect that I’d usually meet with a patronizing eye roll. But as I settled into the space, I couldn’t help but be subsumed by the joyful, playful energy that vibrated throughout the room. The dormant party girl within me reanimated. I was having a very good time.

When I was younger, I was hyper aware of the people around me, always judging them for their suspected judgment of me. In my thirties, I’ve realized nobody is actually thinking about me. There is a certain freedom in getting older. The headlining DJ took the stage, and I deepened the sway of my hips, obeyed the impulse to raise my arms, and let my body blend into the amplified sound. It was a rooted movement, as though I were channeling heat from the core of the Earth. Its thermal energy shot up my legs and sizzled into my shoulder blades, melting my perpetually frozen back muscles. To move in alignment, guided by joy, felt big and free and powerful and sexy. I was as large as the room and let myself claim it. This feeling, I thought, is what wellness had promised. Yet somehow, in trying to be well, I had completely missed the point.

Dancing and rigidity cannot coexist. You sweat your makeup off. Your hair gets damp and frizzy. Your clothes cling. Your limbs flail. You become an energetic channel, wild and alive, responding in real time to your desires and impulses, creating from a place of joy instead of productivity. I don’t need to see my beauty reflected back to me by other people; I can feel it bubbling up from within. It’s a safe place to express embodiment, sensuality, and sexual desire. Through dancing, I can reclaim the spirit of being alive. And the more I engage in this practice, the more this magnetic aliveness seeps into every other aspect of my life. This spirit — this life force — is the missing ingredient. Perhaps the party girl was not so unwise after all.

I am totally captivated by this revelation and eager for my next fix. I ask my friend Ryann to come with me to an “absolute beginner” hip hop dance class and, despite being a classically trained dancer, she agrees. Yancy, our instructor, is passionate and animated, quizzing us on hip hop history and sharing anecdotes about Beyonce after class. He teaches us a short routine we’re meant to learn by the end of the hour and breaks down each step into its most mechanical parts: a step to the right, a hand on the hip, a bounce of the knees. Reduced to its essential elements, the movements are awkward and a bit robotic.

“These are just the steps though,” he says to the class. “You have to add the dance into it.”

He’s speaking about musicality — the magical alchemy that happens when you relax into the movement and start to channel your spirit into it. It’s that life force that turns the rigid steps into something beautiful and alive.

Health optimization culture is no longer contained within Los Angeles; I see these ideas repurposed and amplified everywhere, increasingly by people I would never have expected. And I understand why — modern life feels chaotic and unstable, and on top of that, we’re forced to navigate a rickety health care system that can throw even the most careful financial planner into bankruptcy. But strict rules and biometric markers can only get you so far. At the end of the day, those are just the steps. In order to create something beautiful — something that actually makes you feel well — you have to add in the dance.

Friday

I am feeling particularly uneasy about work today. Every so often I slip into an incessant “am I doing well enough” thought loop where I convince myself the end is nigh (I’ve been in this role for nearly seven years, for context). My last call wraps at 6pm and I need time to emotionally recover on my couch, which puts me about 45 minutes behind schedule. This spiral is perhaps a little indulgent (I fear I’m often “thinking about myself too much,” as Jemima Kirke would say), but also, everything is in flux and uncertain, both in my specific job and in the future of work itself. Will there always be AI-generated copy that needs human review, or will it become so near-human, I’m cut out of the process entirely? I’m not sure I’m ready to grapple with the answer.

Existential fears aside, I begin the trek to Williamsburg to say goodbye to my friend Claudia’s luxury apartment building with the rest of our writing group. Our little band of wayward writers has been gathering for over a year, and this apartment complex has been one of the sites of our blossoming friendship. I’m tickled by how recently these people were strangers. It’s difficult to imagine life before them. I met Shamita while eating dinner at a bar, and David while working from a cafe, and they each invited people they met until the group took shape. Small talk is the seed from which community grows.

On the walk over, I see the “Are you a couple?” guy interviewing a real life couple. I immediately recognize the distinctly nasal tonality of his voice and trademark line of questioning. It’s a simple operation — just him, an iPhone, and a couple on the sidewalk. I don’t let on that I’ve clocked him, but I do walk a tiny bit slower to increase my chances of a background cameo. Fwiw, he’s more attractive than you’re imagining.

I am the last to arrive at Claudia’s, and there is a glass of champagne waiting for me. Claudia has ordered sushi. We eat it on the roof and watch the sun set over the Williamsburg bridge. Everyone agrees they are 20% depressed, which I suppose is befitting of a writer’s group. We make our way downstairs to the hot tub, where I have a mild allergic reaction to the bubbles. When we leave, the elevator takes 10 minutes to arrive, which Claudia says is normal. After all, there are fifty five floors. As we wait in the grey and beige hallway, I contemplate whether the building has conned rich people into living in an upgraded dormitory. I have been suspecting for a while that luxury is a scam, and I file this away as data.

I convince the group to grab a slice of pizza on the walk back to the subway and spot my friend Beau. One of my very few claims to fame is that I have incredible facial recognition. I can instantly spot a C-list celebrity with a mere sideways flick of the eyes, evoking the discretion of a trained spy. I met Beau thirteen years ago when he and I were in the same Hollywood assistant cohort. It was a different Los Angeles, well before TikTok, when the city felt electric and you could (sort of, with light parental help) survive on $27k a year. Seeing someone you love in an unexpected place is a top five feeling. We hug and make loose plans to catch up in a way that makes me feel like we won’t actually see each other, but I appreciate the intention.

Saturday

I walk to the coffee shop around the corner to get a cappuccino and read. A dog at a neighboring table comes up to say hello and the owner apologizes profusely. I assure him that this is a best case scenario. It’s obvious I really need this interaction with his dog, and it’s also clear this man does not want to get involved with my energy. He tightens his grip on the leash, and I go back to reading.

I am inspired to do a deep clean and finally confront the overflowing bins of makeup products that have been idly expiring in my bathroom. Expensive things I tried and didn’t love, but can’t emotionally let go of due to how much I spent on them. A lot of these products haven’t been touched in over a year, and I am finally ready to purge. It is a little disgusting to see the physicalization of your own waste. How many tubes of lipgloss until you realize you hate lipgloss? Twelve, apparently. I make a mental note to stop doing this.

My friend Soham has a table at an EDM show in Brooklyn for his brother’s 30th birthday. After an approximate 10 year hiatus, I have been going out dancing almost every weekend. Though the desire to dance was partially reawakened by a recent break-up, my newfound devotion to the practice goes much deeper. Dancing has been integral in healing my relationship with myself and rediscovering my own inherent erotic power. To move and sweat and laugh and experiment and play from a place of deep joy and self-connection is like medicine that trickles into every other aspect of my life. (But more on that soon.)

I attempt to catch my friend Ryann at the N station in Midtown so that we can travel to the show together, but I’m delirious from the heat and accidentally jump on the Q. We finally unite at 14th street. At the venue, I’m pleased to discover the music is upbeat and joyful and not droning and evil as some EDM can seem. For the second night in a row, I watch the sun set over the Hudson river and feel grateful that it’s still summer, even though I can feel autumn nipping at its ankles.

The boys are now drunk, so Ryann suggests we send them home and get Korean BBQ. Hell yes. We train back to Koreatown and enter what appears to be a completely nondescript apartment building. “I think it’s on floor two,” she says as enter the unmarked elevator. I have the fleeting sense we’re either on our way to get our organs harvested or have one of the best meals of our lives. Luckily, it’s the latter.

The restaurant is joyful and loud and filled with meat smoke. Little silver bowls brimming with pickled vegetables, bean sprouts, brown sauces, and egg souffle cover the wooden table. I make perfect bites of marinated steak, rice, cheesy corn, and kimchi. We walk off the meal and talk about life under the glow of fluorescent video ads. I notice we’ve wandered into Times Square. We each cab home and text each other to confirm we’ve made it back safely.

Sunday

I get a bagel and eat it in Central Park. It’s topped with cream cheese, heirloom tomatoes, cucumbers, pickled onions, dill, capers, lemon, and bacon. This is probably a blasphemous bagel if you were to ask a real New Yorker, but I am not a real New Yorker. I haven’t grabbed enough napkins, so I’m forced to lick my fingers and make use of my pants.

I see a torn book page on the street and think it might be a sign from the universe. It turns out to be horny fiction. “I claim this energy,” I whisper to God, hoping it will manifest. On my way to the gym, there is a kitten adoption event that nearly brings me to my knees. The need to cuddle with something soft overtakes me yet again. I scan the QR code to apply for fostering, knowing all too well that I would not be strong enough.

I train to Chelsea to attend a Shamanic sound bath with my friends Alyssa and Farrah. Though a decade in LA has soured me a bit on the concept, this one turns out to be incredibly cool. We enter a code at the door, which leads to an alleyway, which reveals a one-story house. My phone is turned off and put into a locked bag. The scent of sage and sounds of chimes waft over me, and my body relaxes in Pavlovian response. The instructor, Yuj, has long black hair down to his waist and hands full of silver jewelry. His presence is calming and wise.

Usually I find sound baths a little bit agitating, but this feels like entering a womb. The sounds are deep, rolling, and colorful. Yuj plays flutes, rain sticks, and bowls. When he sings, the vibration of each word ricochets through the room like cast prayers. The hour feels like 15 minutes. Afterwards, we drink mint tea.

I read on the subway home, feeling satisfied and tired. Though I am not living the life I expected, I am grateful for what has filled the space. When life doesn’t go according to plan, everything becomes possible.

I’ll be honest: “Cool Girl” marketing has worked on me. The illusion of the Cool Girl speaks directly to my inner child and her desire for acceptance. And, for all of the usual nature-y, nurture-y reasons, she believes that being perceived as “cool” will bring her love (or, at least, the consolation prize of admiration). Judging by how much Cool Girl copy is clogging up my inbox, it’s safe to assume I am not alone in these impulses.

Cool, of course, doesn’t really mean anything, at least not universally. Therein lies its potency. It’s fill-in-the-blank wish fulfillment for whatever kind of woman you’ve always aspired to be. And look! We’ve1 made it so easy to become her — just add these curated items to your cart, just click this affiliate link, just shop this seasonal drop, and you too can be one step closer to living like the protagonist of whatever unrealistic movie enmeshed itself into your developing psyche.

If you went by my algorithm, you’d learn that the Cool Girl is smoking skinny cigarettes in Europe. She’s wearing athletic shorts and kitten heels. She’s reading Ottessa Moshfegh in a cafe. Her impeccably nonchalant outfits hang off her hip bones with a kind of sartorial ease that conceals any effort. I almost can’t imagine her shopping for clothes; to see her trying would break the illusion. There’s a certain performance of detachment paired with an innate gift for style and taste. And because she never “shows her work,” any Cool Girl guide that claims to give away the secret sauce is like catnip for us non-cool regular girls who want to live the fantasy, too.

By the time all of this gets to me, it’s usually by way of a Cool Girl list selling the same Cool Girl clothes, repackaged as if it were some niche discovery: the Leset Kyoto pants, a Flore Flore tank, Jamie Haller sandals, Jimmy Fairly sunglasses. Are these clothes really cool, or are they expensive basics made exclusive by their unaffordability?2 In my pursuit of coolness, I gobble it up uncritically, despite the fact that trying to be cool and actually being cool are usually in diametric opposition.

It’s worth noting that the average credit card debt per American in December 2025 was $6,715. But if I’ve conflated becoming the Cool Girl with gaining access to love and acceptance, then the consequence of overspending on $300 cotton pants doesn’t feel that dire.

After turning thirty five in March and promptly going through a breakup, I started shopping. I bought Nili Lotan shorts, a new Staud bag, St. Agni shoes. Akila LA sunglasses with yellow lenses. Low-rise pants. On one particularly fraught evening, I spent nearly $600 on two rings I was absolutely convinced would make me the most interesting girl in the room. From Italy, final sale. It was as if I were possessed by an evil Cool Girl spirit with a findom kink.

But by the time the rings arrived in New York, the fever had started to break. As I opened up the box and slid them on my fingers, I had the unsettling realization I was the same person I’d always been, only with jewelry very few people would notice and a burgeoning spending problem. I did not feel cool, nor loved. I felt embarrassed, irresponsible, and silly. No matter how many Cool Girl items I collected, I would not be able to move forward without confronting my deepest fear: I’m too old to find true love3. And unless the Cool Girl is also a therapist, I was going to have to face my limiting beliefs head-on, without her.

The Cool Girl is an aesthetic, but she is not a value system. Because an important part of her lore is her unknowability, we get all the style but never the substance. I don’t know her deepest desires or what she stands for. The fantasy of somehow shrinking into the spotlight — being seen, but only your best bits — is compelling. But in reality, this performance, especially when tied to a ShopMy list or affiliate article, is a red herring for capitalism (all the isms, really). And if you believe you can buy your way into her thinness, her whiteness, her nonchalance, then the co-opted Cool Girl has perhaps served a more nefarious role than any of us marketing girlies intended.

If we want all the Cool Girl fanfare to end, we have to divest: stop clicking the links, stop opening the emails. But even if we kill the Cool Girl, she’ll spring back up in some other insidious form. Instead, I think we free her from her corporate ties. A real Cool Girl is someone with presence, a strong sense of self, and a well-developed inner guidance. She has opinions and speaks them with conviction. She doesn’t need to buy anything to feel powerful; she recognizes her own innate strength. You cannot shop your way into becoming the Cool Girl because she’s already a part of you. All you have to do is claim her.

For the uninitiated, it’s a rare buddy comedy for the girls starring women (Cameron Diaz, Christina Applegate, and Selma Blair) and written by a woman (Nancy Pimental). The fact that it has a 25% on Rotten Tomatoes is thinly veiled misogyny, if you ask me!

It has everything you want out of a great romcom of this era: unrealistic jobs (specifically in relation to the amount of free time they seem to have), a downtown backdrop, a road trip, and a movie costume montage. Oh, and of course, our raison d’être: a fabulous, perfectly early aughts wardrobe.

In striving to understand my personal style as an adult (truly, a case of arrested development), I realized I’m subconsciously drawn to anything that reminds me of the version of “adulthood” that was sold to me via early 2000s movies. Is this why, at thirty five, I’ve re-purchased a pair of 2003-era low rise flare jeans? Almost certainly. (If not now, dear reader, when?!)

Luckily, blessedly, the iconic outfits featured in The Sweetest Thing can be very easily replicated. As a ThredUp aficionado (not sponsored, just a fan), I think it’s one of the best places on the internet to source authentic early 2000s pieces at extremely reasonable prices. The following is a mix of resale finds and modern dupes that give you that turn of the century, romantically avoidant, deliciously spontaneous, and fabulously independent romcom it-girl shine.

We, of course, have to kick things off with the iconic red pants. THE iconic, red, raw silk pants! Cameron’s character (Christina) wears them to an extremely Y2K movie version of a nightclub which has no business existing in this fictionalized version of San Francisco, where the movie is set. The pants and the club are pivotal: this is where she meets her love interest, whose pursuit will become the engine of the film (sorry Alison Bechdel).

But back to THE PANTS: the texture, the color, the dangerously low rise paired with a crop top. I’ll save you the Google search because Denise Wingate, the film’s costume design team lead, custom made these for Cameron out of raw silk, basing the pattern on her favorite pair of jeans, which is why they fit her like a custom-made glove. (The way her butt crack never peeks out needs to be studied.)

If you want to channel the spirit of this look, pants that nail the fit (low-rise, tight-fit, flare) with the color (rich, eye-catching red) will get you close. Pair it with a one-shoulder, long sleeve, black crop top of course! There’s a good one by Susana Monaco that’s popular on Poshmark and Depop. Size small here.

1. Revice Denim The Kate Pant, size 28 - $83

2. VTG Escada silk blend pants via Poshmark, size 36 long - $35

3. L’Autre Chose Low-Rise Pants via The RealReal, size M - $88

4. I.AM.GIA Reika Faux Leather Flare Pants - $109

The D&G leopard print dress Selma Blair’s character Jane wears in this party scene is a lot more accessible. You can find an exact match (or something close) via The RealReal for $350/400, but really, body-con animal dresses abound.

On ThredUp, use the search term “Leopard print bustier dress” if you want a cheaper dupe. Of course, you can also take your pick from the one million new versions of this dress that are being sold pretty much every season of every year. Animal print is a neutral, after all.

As for the top Christina Applegate (or Courtney, as her character is named) is wearing, search “black denim vest” and take your pick. Here’s one on sale for $32 at Aritzia.

1. Rouje Diana dress - size 42 - $156

2. Musera via ThredUp, size S - $13

3. By Anthropologie via ThredUp, size XL - $65

4. Zara dress via Poshmark, size M- $40

5. Galvan London via The RealReal, size M - $364

6. D&G via TheRealReal, size M - $427

The gal pals are often dressed in low-rise and mid-rise work pants, which I beg you not buy anywhere besides ThredUp (unlike Depop and Poshmark, you can return pants that don’t fit for a small fee). Vintage mall brands are your best bet: Banana Republic, Express, The Limited.

The following search terms will yield you a plethora of results $25 and under. I recommend sizing up one size for a true hip-slung feel.

• Low-rise work pants

• Low-rise trousers

• Low-rise pinstripe pant

• Low-rise tweed pant

As for Cameron’s look, I remember these double ring belts being super popular when I was in middle school. Hers appears to be attached to the pant itself (perhaps another custom design with the leftover raw silk pant fabric?), but I could not nail the right search term here. I think this is probably best for the ambitious DIY set who are in the mood for an easy project.

1. Gil Rodriguez El Tigre Everyday Top in Tomate $86

2. With Jean Luci Top $148

3. Reformation Raya Fitted Voile Shirt $128

Cameron at the movie’s cinematic climax. Cropped jean jacket. Deep red body-con cowl neck midi dress. Knee high pointed brown stiletto boots (not pictured, but trust). The perfect Gucci shoulder bag with flirty red trim.

1. Vintage GUCCI Jackie Red Leather Trim Brown GG Canvas Shoulder Bag - $628

2. Kenar cropped jean jacket via ThredUp, size S - $13

3. Mango Wrinkled Effect Drape Dress - $90

4. Richard Tyler suede boots via The RealReal, size 7.5 - $212

If you made it this far, you’re a true 2000s girl and a real friend of mine. And don’t worry, this is only half of what the movie has to offer - part 2 coming soon (whether you like it or not, three people who are reading this). Thank you for indulging me in this labor of love.

xo, Soph

“I’m safe,” I whispered to myself between every hyperventilation.

I’m safe. I’m safe. I’m safe.

Life seems almost picturesque at Civana, a wellness resort in Carefree, Arizona, where the weather’s always hot, the spa is always open, and the food is gluten-free. Distinguished women in gauzy, white caftans and designer sunglasses drift in and out of the poolside restaurant, leaving half-drunk glasses of sauvignon blanc in their wake. Millennials in candy colored workout sets giggle between yoga classes and sound baths. Freshly engaged couples, cheeks flushed with post-coital glow, entwine themselves in lounge chairs. Each night, the sunset casts milky purples and pinks across the horizon, and all the outdoor diners turn their chairs toward the lava lamp sky.

But if you look just a bit closer, you’ll notice the resort is also replete with people who are going through it. After all, no one is more attracted to a wellness resort than a person who is feeling unwell. And Civana, through its breadth of classes included with the price of admission, provides ample opportunity for willing participants to face themselves in big and small ways. You might, for example, start your day with an intention setting ceremony and end it with a sunset meditation. And, in between, you could learn how to breathe away your anxiety, journal for self discovery, and uncover your limiting beliefs with a personal mantra coach. This is how I found myself awake before sunrise, forcing my body into water that’s the same temperature as a refrigerator.

Just a week earlier, I’d experienced the worst anxiety episode of my life — the kind that has you googling “panic attack or heart attack” and “nearest hospital” in the night’s most tender hours. I had just settled into bed after a long day on set in Yucca Valley, where I was on location for a desert-themed photoshoot. I was irresponsibly over-caffeinated, sacrificially under-slept and, I suddenly realized, basically alone at a seedy Hilton Spark.

Despite being exhausted to the point of near-incoherence (I had just gotten off the phone with my then-boyfriend, where I squeaked out five mmhmms in a row before admitting I was no longer tracking the conversation), and even though it was well past midnight, I could not fall asleep. My heart began to patter uncontrollably. It felt as though it had morphed into a giant moth, trapped inside my ribs, futilely railing itself against its bony cage. Crushing swells of dread-laced adrenaline pulsed through my body, as if I’d done a much-too-big line of questionably sourced cocaine. If I die in this hotel room, no one will find me until the morning.

I resolved to sit in the hotel lobby, where at least I could be witnessed by the night shift front desk worker. There, I nibbled on a stale granola bar and wept wet, silent tears beneath the ruthless glow of the hotel’s fluorescent lighting. “It’s gonna be okay,” the man at the desk mumbled towards me as he got up to refill the snack bar to my left, eyes fixed on the candy wrappers in his hand, before retreating to the safety of the staff room. Dealing with me was above his pay grade, no doubt, though I also sensed that social interaction was something he did not particularly enjoy, and I appreciated that he had given me the little that he could.

With no one left to turn to except our tech overlords, I relented to Google’s insistence that I try box breathing. Fucking box breathing. Begrudgingly, I followed the prompts: breathe in for four, hold for four, breathe out for four, hold for four. And, to my surprise (albeit, slight annoyance at its simplicity), it worked. Or, at least, the panic dissipated just enough to feel like imminent death was off the table. I’m going to survive this. The more I regained a sense of safety, the more I was able overcome the fear.

At Civana, there are only a handful of class instructors, and it has the effect of making you feel like a groupie: the meditation instructor is also the journaling prompter is also the cardio strength trainer, and you often find yourself following one person around for the bulk of the day. This is how I came to know Anton, a no-nonsense yoga teacher with a paternal aura and limbfuls of spiritual tattoos. My friend Delaney described him as having “poly energy,” which manifested as a magnetism that drew all of the resort’s lost souls towards him (myself included). I confessed to Anton my struggles with anxiety, and he prescribed me his guided cold plunge class. Because he seemed now to me a minor celebrity, I said yes, despite the fact that I have a long history of despising cold water and eschewing cold plunge culture.

Prior to that morning, I hadn’t held my body in a cold plunge for longer than a few seconds. I’d staunchly avoided this sort of thing since age twelve, when my camp counselors forced me to take mandatory morning swimming lessons in a frigid Minnesota lake. I’d thrown a spectacular hissy fit in the hopes of some kind of exemption, more than willing to humiliate myself in exchange for release from what felt like state-sanctioned torture. I hated the way the cold water made me feel out of control and vulnerable. What if I caused permanent nerve damage, or got such a gnarly case of frostbite, I’d have to amputate my hands and feet? I thought we were supposed to listen to our bodies. And if mine was screaming at me that I was in an unsafe situation, would it not be a betrayal to ignore it?

The sunrise cold plunge class had attracted a group of about ten people. We timidly introduced ourselves to each other in the sauna while we waited for class to begin, feeling naked in our bathing suits. Anton told us we’d all be sitting in the water for three minutes, three times. “Remember,” he told the class, “Discomfort is not the same as danger.” The trick, he explained, was to jump in quickly and immediately splash the cold water on your face. Then, focus on your breath.

I steeled myself against the inevitable pain, reminded myself I was brave, and crouched in the shallow pool, submerging myself up to my chin. Immediately, I began to sob, and I felt shockwaves of terror pulse through my chest as I fought to override my body’s impulse to get out. “Breathe,” Anton said, and I followed his command, though my inhales and exhales were jagged and whimpery.

My twelve year old self took over. You’re not keeping us safe, she screamed at me. She was kind of a brat, if I’m honest, but I understood her concern. We’re just uncomfortable, I whispered back to her. This is good for us. She humphed and began to protest, but at thirty five, I was much more experienced and certainly more powerful. I noticed her resistance soften in response to my assertiveness. What she really wanted was a capable leader and, finally, I was acting like one.

“3, 2, 1… that’s three minutes.” We scurried out of the cold plunge and into the relief of the hot tub, squealing and elated. I had survived, nerves intact. And, aside from a mild throbbing throughout my limbs as my body reheated itself, the experience hadn’t actually been that bad. In fact, once my brain understood that I was safe, the pain reduced tremendously. How much of the discomfort I experience in my life is real, I wondered, and how much is simply a physicalization of my fear?

In between plunges, I contemplated the ways I had let pain avoidance architect my life. To avoid the pain of a breakup and being single in my mid-thirties, I stayed in a relationship that no longer felt aligned. To avoid the pain of criticism and failure, I rarely published my writing. To avoid the pain of financial uncertainty, I never took a career risk. What if, actually, the pain I spent so much time and energy trying to avoid was way less uncomfortable than the life I built trying to avoid it? Fear had manipulated me into thinking I was keeping myself safe. In reality, I was keeping myself stuck.

I thought back to the anxiety attack in the desert, where I had felt so in danger and afraid. I was not having a heart attack — I was fearing one. And the fear of a possibility that was most likely never going to actualize felt like dying. It is hard to remember that the things we’re avoiding are so rarely as bad as we think they’re going to be. But the truth is, you cannot pre-feel emotions before they happen, you cannot pre-worry to prevent things from going wrong, and you cannot avoid the bad (or the good) in your path. The only way out — the most painless path forward — is to go directly through, bravely and breathing.

Come on in, the water’s fine.

ThredUp is a great place when you’re feeling inspired by something specific. Have your eye on 90s/00s trending silhouettes? You can likely find the original, for a fraction of the price (and better quality), on ThredUp. Looking for a specific fabric? The right search terms make it easy. ThredUp allows you to participate in trends (especially vintage-inspired ones) without spending a ton of money or looking exactly like everyone else. Plus, when you do it right, it’s an incredibly affordable way to shop, which cannot be overstated.

Why people hate ThredUp

To be fair, ThredUp did get a recent glow-up in September and it is a lot more user friendly than it ever was before. But I think the main deterrent is that, at first glance, it’s still a bit of chaos. They don’t have the curation that The RealReal is known for, there’s no consistent “drop” schedule, and you’ve got luxury goods nestled in with Shein and H&M.

Why I personally LOVE ThredUp

Success comes from search terms, not brand names.

I’ll do a separate post on the most fruitful search terms, but once you figure out the terms that work with your style, the treasure trove opens up to you. Because these terms aren’t necessarily linked with trending items or highly sought after brand names, you can usually find incredible deals (think: $15 pants).

Some great search terms to get you started: silk skirts, low-rise trousers, linen pants. I find it works best when you focus on a particular fabric, like silk or cotton or linen, or a specific design element, like fringe. I’ve even had success with the word “blouson” when I was looking for a sweater with a slightly elasticated bottom band.

Tips for bottoms: Size up 1-2 sizes if you want skirts to sit lower on the hips. It’s also smart to size up in pants generally when you’re searching for things from the early 2000s because a size 6 back then sometimes fits more like a 4 today. Not always, but something to be aware of.

The sizing tool allows you to be laser-focused.

Unlike TRR, whose sizing filter is surprisingly unsophisticated (all they have is S/M/L etc.), ThredUp lets you get super granular about your sizing preferences. I’m personally a S/M top and M/L bottom, so this makes narrowing your search extra easy.

You can search by image.

I personally love Jennifer Lawrence, Zoe Kravitz, and Dakota Johnson’s street style (me and every other 30 something girl in NYC, I know I know) — but I’m often priced out by the brands they wear. That’s when I screenshot their inspo pics and upload to the ThredUp image search. It doesn’t always work, and it’s very item-dependent (the simpler the better), but I have found great pieces this way.

Copy the essence of trends, not the exact trends themselves.

See above re: search by image. But it’s also great for things like trending colors — you can participate in something that’s modern, like butter yellow, but put a vintage spin on it.

Get the real thing from the 90s/2000s — not the 2025 reinterpretation.

ThredUp is a great place to find actual pieces from this era. I’ll put together a list of go-to brands you can search in another post, but they’re usually even better than the modern version, in addition to being cheaper, more unique, and sustainable.

Some brands to get you started: Jones New York, BCBG, Chicos, Nanette Lepore, Guess, Express

They’re always having a major sale.

If you aren’t getting at least 20% off, just wait a day or two. I think you also get a pretty sweet discount on your first purchase (I believe it’s 50% off everything?).

To be known is to be loved

One benefit of frequent browsing (and favoriting) is that its algorithm gets to know you extremely quickly. The more you use it correctly, the more the treasures will come to you — no digging required.

However: one thing I have noticed is that they do seem to use dynamic pricing. That means that sometimes the prices I’m served (because I’m drawn to premium brands) is higher than what you get when you search for the item on Google (type “ThredUp [insert name of item]” in search). Sometimes it’s good to double check to make sure you’re getting the best possible price.

Let me be your guide

I’ll share more vetted search terms, items I’ve found (with links to shop), and tricks for getting inspired by trends (not copying them) here soon, so follow for more.

Let me know what you find!

“You sold your house?” I repeated what I heard with an upward inflection so it came out like a question. Melissa, a few paces ahead of me, swatted fake palm leaves out of our path as we searched for our seats on the restaurant’s outdoor patio. Mariachi music played softly from speakers hidden in the potted plants behind our heads.

Melissa had been living in rural red state Colorado in a neighborhood designated for single family homes. When she bought her 3,000 square foot house, she was married and thought she’d fill the home with kids. After her divorce, she covered her mortgage by renting out one of her rooms to a lesbian couple. The pride flag she defiantly placed in her front yard had been the last straw.

“I got written up by the HOA for having an unruly lawn. My next door neighbor was the president — an asshole cop that everyone hated. I went over there and told him, ‘Hey, my twin sister just killed herself so you can get fucked.’”

“What did he say?” I asked, incredulous.

“Sorry.” Her eyes danced with deviant satisfaction.

I met Melissa when we were eight. She and her identical twin Kelly sat cross-legged on the dusty wooden bunk floor, surrounded by a mountain of candy their parents had snuck in against camp rules. “Want some gum?” they offered in joyful unison, eager to share in their bounty and transgression. Under the shadow of the Poconos, we wove our childhoods together with brightly colored lanyards and our first tasty tendrils of freedom.

Kelly and Melissa carried the invincibility of childhood into their adult lives. Melissa spent her free time backcountry skiing, rock climbing, and mountain biking. Kelly, meanwhile, was a music festival enthusiast and brilliant engineer. She once bought an ambulance and converted it into a mobile home using only YouTube as a reference. On a trip overseas, she bungee jumped twice in a row — the second time for free by agreeing to do it naked.

“So I guess the last time I saw you was a year ago, at Kelly’s funeral.” I scanned her face for signs of discomfort and saw none. “How have you been doing?”

“I mean, not great obviously.” She laughed. “The last three years have been absolutely fucked, but what can you do?”

Three years ago, Kelly started having unexplained neurological symptoms: 24/7 chronic pain, extreme, unintended weight loss, and a sudden inability to walk or read. An endless stream of doctors and specialists had determined that her immune system was attacking her nervous system but couldn’t explain why or offer any solutions. The pain was so unrelenting, the hopelessness so flagrant, it was not surprising to learn her condition was known colloquially as “the suicide disease.”

“You know, my health hasn’t been that great lately either,” Melissa said into her drink, averting my gaze. “I started having the same symptoms as Kelly, which obviously, you know, freaked me the fuck out. Apparently I fit all the markers for a connective tissue disorder, which, in a sick turn of events, means my immune system could begin attacking my nervous system.” Just like Kelly.

Our last summer at camp, we spent three weeks learning to film and edit a music video. We borrowed dusty costumes from the theater department, put glitter and found objects in our hair, and danced beneath the shade of red maples and chestnut oaks to the Vengaboys’s We Like To Party. While girls in other bunks were starting to bend their petals towards the boys’ sunshine, Kelly and Melissa gripped hard onto childhood and kept us away from lipgloss for at least one more year.

On the anniversary of Kelly’s death, I sent Melissa a Vengaboys t-shirt.

“I listened to a podcast about a 60 year old woman who realized she hadn’t done anything important with her life. Can you imagine anything sadder?” Melissa said as we waited for our check. “I decided I’m going to do everything I want since, you know, who knows how much time I have left.”

I thought back to the day I learned of Kelly’s passing. How I had dismissed her illness as an anomaly: a virus she picked up in a developing country, or the wrong concoction of party drugs done carelessly, too many times. I hadn’t considered genetics, how her identical twin could be equally as susceptible. I hadn’t considered losing them both.

We spent the rest of the night listing things we wanted to do before we died, reminiscing about the spaciousness of childhood, and lamenting the inevitable narrowing of possibility. I promised her we’d do a real reunion this year with the other girls from our cabin. I tried to memorize the moment as I hugged her goodbye.

I was still thinking about Kelly and Melissa the next day when I wandered into my neighborhood cafe, clouded by brain fog and a profound sense of injustice. Even though I was close to home, I felt an internal nudge to use the bathroom before heading back. The moment I shut the door, the familiar circusy bass of the Vengaboys began to churn over the restaurant’s speakers.

We like to party, we like, we like to party.

My heart vibrated with knowing tingles that plunged into my stomach. I clicked the lock shut, steadied myself against the cool tile wall, and felt the tears I’d been swallowing fall down my cheek. “Hi Kelly,” I whispered.

I don’t think we ever really die. I believe our souls go on to play out other stories and other lives, connected through the lessons our spirits want to learn and the desires that propel us through each lifetime. Kelly’s soul came here to experience the party, and she burned bright with righteous rebellion and a hunger to do whatever anyone deemed impossible.

If you want to meet Kelly, it’s not hard to channel her — and while you’re still here on Earth, I recommend you do. Wear clothing with brightly colored patterns. Get a tattoo, but let the tattoo artist pick the design. Book an international flight that leaves tonight. Shave your head. Speak your mind. And always say yes to the party.

I need blue light in my eyes first thing in the morning to wake me up, I explain to a new boyfriend when he asks why we don’t cuddle in the morning. Hint taken. I put my phone on the window sill and settle into his arms, placing my head in the nook between his face and shoulder. When he drifts back into heavy sleep, my limbs involuntarily twitch and I feel my heart start to race. My hands, immobilized beneath the weight of his body, stretch towards my phone in vain as if I’m trying to command a phantom limb.

Phone addiction is so common, it’s hard to take seriously. Isn’t everyone addicted to their phones? It dawned on me that I might be capital-A Addicted while watching a clip of the Drew Barrymore Show. In it, Drew explains to the audience that she used to turn to alcohol because she didn’t want to feel. When she quit, her emotions returned with a vengeance. I was struck with recognition.

After deleting the Instagram app off my phone (though, notably, still allowing myself to access it on my laptop — for work purposes), I had been uncharacteristically crying nonstop. And also, laughing. My perpetual brain fog curled back at its edges, revealing brighter colors and sharper lines. Silence seemed more textured. The numbness had begun to thaw.

The silence is when I’m most vulnerable. It starts when I walk into my apartment and feel the relief of privacy. First the shoes come off, then the pants. I float to my white linen couch, stretch my legs out long and rest my head on its arm. I consider cooking something, but the workday has taken too much from me. The phone shall provide. I open DoorDash and treat myself to something from the healthy category, knowing in my marketer bones that I am being manipulated (I allow it, I welcome it). And now, with the screen in my hand and my body in a prone position, I freefall into the murky, liminal space of phone world. I will come up occasionally for shallow breaths (to eat, to pee, to put on sweatpants), but soon enough the undertow will catch me, and I’ll submit again to its anesthetizing caress.

Even without Instagram, I still find myself compulsively reaching for my phone in a frantic, subconscious search for dopamine. Every time an uncomfortable feeling begins to root, my device appears in hand, fingers autopiloting towards the nearest shiny object.

It doesn’t take long to discover that you can watch reels on the Facebook app, so this has to be deleted too. In a desperate Hail Mary, I open LinkedIn and am shocked to find people I knew in real life posting regularly and with great enthusiasm about hideous things like B2B sales and gamification strategies. The man I lost my virginity to waxes poetically about a CPG beverage marketing conference. It’s grotesque and sublime and I can’t look away, so it also has to be removed.

No matter how many apps I delete, I can ‘t seem to shake the impulse to escape my body.

With phone scrolling no longer an option, I am shocked by all the dead space left in its wake. Time, the scarcest of all resources, is suddenly, uncomfortably, abundant. Has there always been this much time? I sit at my dining room table and stare out the window, involuntarily jiggling my foot against the table leg. I need to move. I touch up my makeup in the bathroom and head into the neighborhood.

In a bid to reclaim my presence, I make a rule that I can’t look at my phone while I’m in public unless it’s an emergency. My brain, used to constant, phone-driven stimulation, is like a camera lens in automatic focus, latching onto every bouncing shape within its depth of field. A fence, newly painted, fat white splatters speckling the sidewalk. Tiny fuchsia flowers careening over a graffitied wall. Two attractive men having a stern conversation. Their hands find each other, they kiss. An older woman bent over a walker, smiling at me as she gets her steps in.

I walk past the 24 hour diner, the gentrified burrito shop playing techno-infused reggaeton, the vintage cinema, the independent bookstore. I pass through throngs of hip young creatives in the street and sort them into “philes”: biblio-, biblio-, definitely cine-. Bits of songs smear past me, and I try to guess what the drivers look like before I see their faces. When I walk through the maze of tables outside the French sidewalk cafe, I count the first dates.

I duck into a vintage store. A jovial man greets me at the door and assures me they’re still open. Racks of coats from every recent decade line the walls, their musty vintage leather stinging my nostrils. I try on a brown leather jacket and consider buying it. You have great stuff, I say. I can’t believe I’ve never been here before.

He asks if I’m new to the neighborhood, and I admit that I’m not. I explain that I’ve been stuck in a routine, by which I really meant a rut.

Ah, we get people like you all the time, he says. People are busy, they get caught up in their lives. But every once in a while they wake up and come find us.

I have a phone session with Kristin, an energy healer I call when my anxiety reaches unbearable heights. I lie in bed with my phone on the pillow next to me, listening to Kristin’s gentle guidance. I fill my lungs with air and exhale deeply as instructed until my body feels like it’s full of ocean water, rolling in and out in heaving waves.

She asks me to place my attention on my feet, to feel them melt and merge with the ground beneath them. Her words are slow and hypnotic, and I feel resistance evaporate off my body in steaming vapors. She encourages me to move my anxiety from the crown of my head and out through the soles of my feet. My body pulses and tingles with static energy that slowly melts into a tender hum. She senses the shift — There it is. Presence.

I’ve called it Bad PR because most of the things I’ve felt called to write center on an unflattering truth about myself. But, as they say, all press is good press, so we’re moving ahead. If you’d like to be notified when they go live, feel free to subscribe (it’s free).

Last but not least, I’d like to give a huge shoutout to Vanessa Cordova, who is creating custom art to go with each essay and has been a generous sounding board throughout this whole process.

Thank you for being here.

xx

Soph