My goal for this quarter? Stop trying to play it cool.

I can’t lie; I am always instinctively flattered when the occasional person tells me that they think I’m cool. I myself often use that adjective to describe people I find interesting in a good way, from whatever always-limited knowledge—outfits, mutual friends, Instagram profiles—I have of them. But what is it about the word “cool” that is so flattering to me?

In my life, “cool” has always been a vague but perpetually desirable standard. Before college, to be cool was perhaps more straightforward: hang out with the right crowd. These friend groups were rebellious but not too rebellious; they wore the trendiest clothes, knew the right slang, started dating early, and carried an air of nonchalance towards everything they did while being decently good at those activities. They didn’t care too much about school, but didn’t entirely not care, either. They cared just the right amount.

Being cool at UChicago is obviously different—for one, we all probably cared a lot about academics back in high school. So especially at a school as dorky as UChicago, the idea of cool seems more ambiguous, as there is less of a specific formula to achieve it. Being smart and career-driven is cool to some, thriving in Greek life is cool to others, and so is being into indie music, film, or fashion.

College also presents a larger, more fragmented social sphere—all of a sudden, I don’t know everyone in my class and their entire family histories like I might’ve in high school. UChicago is oddly big and small at the same time: while I probably am only one degree of separation away from every UChicago student, I’m still blind to half of the friend groups that exist in just my class.

So while there is no singular “right crowd” in college, one thing remains from high school social politics: there is still the mysterious “right amount” to care. Some people have their anxieties written on their faces, and other people are unaware to the point of being obnoxious. Toeing the line between care and apathy—capturing that perfect level of nonchalance—requires a sharp social adeptness that is impossible to mechanically replicate. In fact, perhaps it is precisely because of this je ne sais quoi that we desire being cool so deeply. Maybe it’s because there’s no perfect way to verbalize “cool” that it gets its significance—only some people get it, and they seem to get it carelessly and effortlessly, without trying.

I suppose this is the issue that I have with playing it cool: you can only care so much about something before it becomes too much. To try too hard, to be too tight-strung, or to care too much is simply “not a good look.” Instead, it’s better to move through life breezily and apathetically, never overly attached to situations or interests or classes or other people. Get good grades because you’re smart, not because you spend day and night posted up at the Reg. Lightly apply to jobs and land impressive internships, but don’t spend day and night talking about networking and the recruiting process. Date someone attractive and have a healthy, secure relationship, but never be caught pining over someone that might not be equally into you. To be unattached means that nothing has the potential to hurt us. It is one of the biggest social powers one can possess. It is simultaneously one of the most limiting and inauthentic ways to live.

There are so many invisible social codes woven into the way we carry ourselves and the ways we move through life. Don’t say hi too early before you cross paths with someone you know. Don’t smile or make eye contact with someone you only drunkenly met once last weekend at a frat party. Don’t spam your main Instagram story. Instead, stick to wonderfully aesthetic pictures in your casual photo dumps: a mix of nonchalant (but actually meticulously planned) candids, group pictures, and scenery shots, so you don’t look too vain. All of this crafts for us an image of ourselves that we project to those outside: someone interesting, someone stylish, someone to fall in love with, someone cool.

But why do we all feel so much pressure to be photographers, stylists, muses to ourselves and each other? Why must we wrap ourselves up so nicely to be seen as worthy of friendship, love, or desire?

To abide by all social rules, we must withhold ourselves from experiencing and expressing ourselves in our messy, complex totalities. In our pursuit of playing it cool, we lose a more passionate, open, and free life: one that belongs to us without setting aside anything for outside presentation.

In my ideal world, we would feel no pressure to represent ourselves as anything but what we are. Being yourself, embarrassing and emotional and imperfect, does not have to be a mortifying project. This quarter, my pursuit of refusing to play it cool involves laughing loudly without fearing weird looks, unabashedly liking dumb, catchy music, and being myself without punishing myself for the embarrassing parts. My ideal world isn’t very realistic. No matter what, there are always going to be people who judge and evaluate you in unkind ways. But I suppose what I mean to say is that those ways of viewing other people and your own existence are ultimately quite silly. Playing it cool at the cost of accepting and expressing yourself is a dumb way to live.

All this to say, if we’re not always trying to be cool, perhaps we can just be ourselves: people that are caring, warm, and alive. This way, we can find people who love us for all of the fascinating, obnoxious, idiosyncratic things that make our existences in this world unique, particular, and singular. In refusing to play it cool, we can find people that truly know us, and despite that all-encompassing, terrifying knowing, choose to love us nonetheless.

Jessica Zang is a second-year in the College