The Definition of Demure

A portrait of the most graceful woman I know.

The other night, at our buddy’s place, we were pregaming for nothing really. I was being a particular strain of obnoxious, describing things as “brat” and “demure,” feeling internet-soaked and flamboyant after finishing my Yogurt-flavored soju. My heterosexual¹ friend

briffin glue

, clearly bewildered, interrupted me,

“What does demure even mean?” he asked, seeming clueless in the face of our generation’s collective algorithm.

It was a fair question. Being “demure” was all the rage as Summer 2024 drew to a close. All over the internet, people were posting videos highlighting the ways we should be “very mindful, very cutesy, very demure.” The meme was something of a medium for ironic confessions of one’s own lack of elegance. Yet, trend-hopping influencers, corporate social media pages, and Zoomers making post-ironic references all shined a giant blue light onto a cultural truth: to be demure was the new goal.

However, when Griffin asked, I just stared at him speechless. Explaining it would only make me feel dumber than I already looked. My answer, though, wasn’t in words—it was in the night before.

After closing up at the wine shop, drunk off some Chardonnay meant for people with bigger paychecks than myself, I hopped across the street to find a friend who had just gotten back from San Francisco, a city she was way too charming for. Jen moved in directly across the street from my new job as a wine merchant, and I was secretly giddy at the idea of hanging out with her more. Jen had a way of making you feel more elegant than you actually were.

I spotted her poking her head out of her glass door. “Jen!” I called out and when we hugged I tried not to be nervous. Jen was one of those effortlessly cool types, the kind that didn’t have to convince anyone of it.

She was 5 '3 — I think; I don’t really pay attention to anyone’s height unless they’re a guy I’m into — small-faced, small-waisted, and always clad in black. She was slender in the way people photoshopped themselves to be, so goddamn beautiful. The kind of beauty that typically inspires scorn from other women and attracts the grimiest of men. Yet, Jen carried herself with such demure grace that I liked to imagine the uglier things in life — envy, lust, gluttony — just rolled off her like raindrops off the petal of a white rose.

I always sort of wondered how she went through life not making enemies or leaving men heartbroken just by turning the corner. While I’d never admitted to it — I always nimbly avoided introducing her to my straight guy friends. Not because I was possessive, but because I knew exactly what would happen: they’d fall in love with her in an instant, and there’s nothing more annoying than watching that familiar glimmer in a straight boy’s eye when he thinks he’s found “the one.”

Jen was an abstract-expressionist painter, working with large-scale canvases that looked chaotic to me, yet had a harmony that seemed to reflect her inner world. Her place was decor’ed (decorated isn’t chic enough of a word for her) with art books on Basquiat, Rothko, and I’m sure somewhere in the pile you’d find The Creative Act by Rick Rubin. Her bathroom counter was lined with products I could never afford and, as I sat on her barstool swaying from the wine, I wondered what it must be like to walk into an Aesop and know you belonged there. Jen knew. She definitely knew.

She pulled a 312 from her fridge and poured it into two glasses. I hate 312s, but the ambiance of her non-overhead-lit West Town apartment made a 312 taste like the most elegant craft beer I’d ever had. Leaning over her kitchen counter like a goddess, she casually filled me in on her time in San Francisco. She had been hanging out in parks, seeing a man, absorbing the energy of the city. Only Jen could make San Francisco sound charming.

As we talked, I realized: she is it. Jen was the embodiment of demure. She lived on her own terms—going out only when it suited her, drinking espresso martinis, and going to bed at a reasonable hour. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone. She just existed in her own soft, intentional way, and I was enchanted “how the fuck does she do it?”

We went down to the Fry the Coop below her apartment to eat fried chicken sandwiches. She ate her food. I devoured mine. And, after dinner when she declared it was her bedtime, I was impressed. There’s nothing more respectable for young adults than having a bedtime. I hugged her goodbye and our nights went their separate ways.

I envied Jen. I imagined her waking up the next morning in her Brooklinen sheets, her room warm with the scent of Le Labo candles and Aesop incense², doing her skincare routine of Kiels and other brands I can’t pronounce. She would walk over to her loft window and sip green tea before whipping out a shadow work journal and doing her morning yoga. Meanwhile, I spent mig night bar hopping with acquaintances, sloshed off whiskey shots and post-work fatigue. I wouldn’t find myself asleep until long past midnight. 

My morning would find me on someone’s air mattress beneath a single gray fleece blanket from Target. I felt grimy, cold, and sick to my stomach. My breath reeked of cigarettes and shame. I had to open up the wine shop in a couple of hours, my face already predicting a breakout. 

If Jen was the definition of demure. Then I — in that moment — was its antithesis.

Griffin had asked a simple question, but the answer wasn’t as simple. It wasn’t about knowing the definition. It was about knowing someone like Jen³ — who moved through life with a grace I could never understand—and realizing I was miles away from that kind of elegance.

1. I wouldn’t normally feel the need to clarify something like this, but in the conversation of “Brat” and “Demure” sexuality is kind of an important thing to note. Griffin’s the kind of straight guy who wears tote bags and Birkenstocks, so the algorithm feeds him “brat”/”demure” content whether he understands it or not.

2. When reading the rough draft of this essay to a friend, she thought it was important to note that “When Jen comes over, her scent lingers in your apartment.” For my birthday, Jen gifted me Aesop incense and cologne… for your hair. Now that’s class.

3. The craziest thing is I think she’d be embarrassed and slightly annoyed to be compared to some internet trend like this one. But Jen, if you ever see this, just know… you are not some lame internet trend. You are what the “demure” TikTokers and Instagram Reelers wish they could be.