On Men, Motherhood & a Millennial Midlife Crisis (in Marc Jacobs)
I just got back from a cute little weekend trip home that was equal parts healing et heartbreaking.
The good news is, I got to see my family et friends. The bad news is, the family et friends are down bad. I think we’re beyond any planets retrograding at this point, let’s just call this what it is: the side effects of World War III.
“I mean, we’re all depressed.”
-an actual quote from a recent coffee date
(We went to 10Dean where the earl grey matcha was quite good.)
Everything is happening, none of it good, et what’s even more depressing is the places we typically run to for fantasy et escape (fashion, art, lit) are under attack by A.I, misinformed talking heads, greed et desperation. There. I said it. We’re all—especially if you’re creative in any way—desperate. We’re desperate for attention but only because we have to be. The socials are your portfolio, et the portfolio is how you get work, et you need work to get money, parce que you need money to survive. We’re all desperate to survive. Very much not the life I envisioned when I was a crazy little girl with no limits et all dreams of the things they said we’d have if we just worked hard. In May, I lost my job. On an unassuming Wednesday afternoon, the VP of my former department called me into a surprise meeting with HR, praised me for being an amazing writer and creative strategist then wished me well in unemployment. We love a plot twist! What is life without a little drama? Isn’t Les Mis internationally acclaimed?!
Of course! But I hate not working.
Not just for the lack of funds, et God does she miss the funds, but for the lack of purpose et for the resentment I feel for having an identity crisis just because I lost my job! It’s sooo cliché, et not to mention unhealthy—et kinda boring. When the weeks turned into months et the months turned into 4, I wondered if this is what Marc Jacobs felt like. In summer 2018, the NYT chronicled how he “fell out of fashion.” Months before, Vanessa Friedman reviewed his Fall 2018 collection writing “he is one of our greatest talents. It may still not be enough.” A week after I was laid off, LVMH announced it was selling Marc Jacobs after 30 years together. Marc Jacobs is one of the greatest American designers of my lifetime, et lifetimes before mine, but it still may not be enough. I’m an amazing writer, that wasn’t enough either.
Admittedly, Marc said he no longer understands what customers want, I understand that. I’ve only been servicing one juxtaposition-loving cool girl my whole life et I have no idea what she wants either. In the first two weeks of unemployment, I seriously considered going back to school to become a funeral director or maybe going back to school just to say I’m a student. Which sounds much more chic in your 30s than I’m jobless et questioning my worth each passing day. Similar to Marc turning out poppy Y2k-leaning styles at every turn—that aren’t as exciting or compelling as he is known to be—I’ve turned out resumes to jobs that were either a step back professionally, or at brands that don’t excite me at all. All of which leave my laptop just to die on the frontier of application tracking systems or land me an interview that goes well, but ends with a ghosting. The “I’ll get back to yous” et “look out for my emails” that don’t manifest into anything other than late night spirals about whether or not the interview even existed or if it was just a trap to steal my data et likeness. You never know!
One could argue the job market also doesn’t know what it wants: humans to operate their newly acquired AI tools that do the jobs of humans, or humans they can underpay in order to afford the AI tools that do the jobs of humans. It’s a complicated tango, but even though the socioeconomic standing continues to buckle at the knees, there are a few joys that make it worth it.
Like Thai food et friendship.
(Speaking of dinner! Here are some recent dinner ‘fits)
Recently, I went to Koh Lipe with my cousins et my sister (the one in Markham!) et I wondered if I was really sad or if I just needed Prik Pau Talay, a spicy sangria et to gab at a dinner that doesn’t orbit motherhood—as such thing hasn’t happened for me in awhile. The number of my boyfriend’s friends starting families this year—no pun intended—is growing. We ended last year at a gender reveal, started this one at a baby shower, with another gender reveal + shower coming up. We’ve dressed in blue, we’ve thought pink thoughts (at the request of the parents), we’ve bought diapers, carriers, bibs etc., et we’ve been the victims of the you’re next allegations. Always said with a smile et not at all as threatening as I perceive it to be, but we are victims nonetheless. Because despite my playful demeanour et youthful glow,
I’m coming of the age where people start taking my fertility very seriously. You don’t want to be 50 running after a 10 year old, et what if I do? What then?! I’m privileged enough to be surrounded by women who make motherhood look really inspiring, with their Rihanna-coded pregnancy fits, proactive partners, or just the general good-at-being-a-motherness that comes so naturally to some women. Like my sister, even as a toddler she had this nurturing spirit. Our parents would say she’d probably grow up to be a teacher because she was so good with kids. She was a kid! Maybe motherhood is like being gay. You’re just born with it. Either you find out when you’re a child or you experiment a little et the next thing you know you’re in a single bed with your legs up on the road to rediscovery. Et if you’re ever worried about what kind of mother you’ll be, the people who make parenting honour roll every year are sure to meet your self doubt with their obvious confidence. Don't say that. You’d be a great mother! You only feel that way now, you’ll come around. They say, hands rubbing swollen bellies I’m too scared to carry myself. I do believe children are the future, et I don’t doubt I could teach them well et let them lead the way, but what I do doubt is how well I’d handle the change. The change in lifestyle, the change in how often I see my friends, the change in my sleep schedule, the change in my face, my body. The very possibility of growing out of my wardrobe et never growing back into it. The cost of a child is already so much, the cost of replacing vintage Dries Van Noten skirts is another thing.
If all the world’s a stage, then when you become a parent is when your solo act ends. From here on out, you’re an understudy to a young new thing. Et while some divas feel as though they’ve done enough singing for a lifetime et can gracefully step to the back of the stage, some divas are trying to learn the steps for their next act while cogitating the complexities of being a hetero woman in love. In her 1990s book Practicalities, Marguerite Duras says: “You have to be very fond of men. Very, very fond. You have to be very fond of them to love them. Otherwise they're simply unbearable.” This is the quote Manon Garcia uses to open my current read, her 2025 book, Living With Men: Reflections on the Pelicot Trial. It’s an evergreen truth. You truly do have to be fond of them, because even when you’re being courted by a Mr. Darcy or a Darnell Wilkes, your shared world is still a Man’s World. A few days ago, my grandmother et I came together to make a list of all the men in our family who haven’t stepped outside of their relationship. My family isn’t a small one by any means, yet the list wasn’t long at all. RIP Uncle Roy, they don’t make ‘em like you anymore.
These are the thoughts that have my head sliding out of my bonnet at night. Sometimes I think I should have listened to Daisy Buchanan. The harrowing realization that we can’t dismantle the social system that upholds their power—for the same reasons we can’t properly boycott a megastore with same day shipping or stop shopping fast fashion—can’t hurt me if I’m just pretty et unaware!
But ignorance is only bliss when you’re unaware of the pain. What is it when you’re unaware of the blessing? It’s a beautiful thing to be in love—even in a Man’s World. Marguerite dropped bars about loving them despite of, but Franz Kafka was onto something when he said—allegedly—“by believing passionately in something that still does not exist, we create it.” A world where a man relieves himself 100% of the toxic privileges society allows him isn’t a guarantee, but I believe in the men self aware enough to move through this world without abusing the power handed to them within a made up hierarchy. Like, just be normal bro.
Pure, genuine, deep, worldchanging romance is something I will believe in now et forever. To be or not to be delusional, am I right? But holding space for the nuanced truth, while still believing in romance, in the dream job, in the three story townhouse et Fendi bag collection, might be the root of my millennial midlife crisis. Maybe it’s not anxiety keeping me up at night, but the psychological warfare that comes with the refusal to stop believing something is worth it even when the evidence suggests otherwise.
Marc Jacobs could have quit. He could have remained blissfully unaware of the market’s current homogeneity et confusion, but then we wouldn’t see the return of Marc Jacobs Beauty or added another generation to his fashion discography. Thom Browne said “if you do good work, you will survive. Marc has always done good work.”
Et on my best days, worst days, et days Idk how to start or end, so do I.
