A recent CBC article caught my eye.
It referenced a study by researchers at the University of Michigan and the University of Southern California that tried to pin down the modern definition of “cool.” According to their findings, the traits that make someone cool today include being extroverted, hedonistic, powerful, adventurous, open and autonomous. In other words, charismatic, unapologetically pleasure-seeking, confident, thrill-chasing, and self-directed.
I read that list, paused, and immediately felt something deeper stir. Not disagreement exactly, but dissonance. A quiet unease, not just with the traits themselves, but with the assumption behind them – that this is who we want to be. That this is the ideal we are chasing, or worse, measuring ourselves against.
There’s something about this framing that feels performative. Manufactured. Hollow, even. As if the essence of cool has been hijacked by optics and shaped to serve what the world applauds most loudly: presence without pause, confidence without doubt, expression without introspection.
But here’s the thing. In the world I move in – in leadership, in social impact, in teaching and mentorship – I rarely see power, extroversion or pleasure-seeking as the defining currency of those who quietly move mountains. The most impressive people I meet often have little interest in being perceived as cool. They’re too busy doing the work, showing up with consistency, sitting with complexity, listening more than speaking, standing firm without needing to be seen.
That, to me, is cool.
I don’t reject the traits identified in the study outright. Autonomy and openness, for instance, have great value. But even these can easily slip into self-righteous detachment or curated vulnerability if we’re not careful. Hedonism? It sounds attractive on paper, especially in a culture so saturated in burnout and pressure. But if cool is defined by a pursuit of pleasure and freedom from consequence, I wonder what happens to restraint, to grace, to kindness, to character.
We live in an age where the social gaze has become our inner compass. Everything is observable, measurable, presentable. But not everything that matters should be broadcast. And not everything that is broadcast should matter.
This version of cool, I suspect, is less a mirror of our aspirations and more a projection of our anxieties. We don’t want to be forgotten, so we become loud. We don’t want to be left behind, so we chase novelty. We don’t want to appear vulnerable, so we call it autonomy. And in doing so, we lose sight of the quieter, deeper definitions of what makes a person magnetic. Not enviable, but trusted. Not flashy, but solid. Not admired from a distance, but respected up close.
When I think of what cool really looks like, I think of someone who doesn’t flinch in hard conversations. Someone who admits when they don’t know. Someone who chooses principle over popularity. Who can walk into a room and make others feel seen without making themselves the center of it. Someone who carries their solitude with ease. Who can hold silence without fidgeting. That is cool to me.
It’s easy to mistake cool for charisma. But charisma can be cultivated. It can be taught. Sometimes, it’s just performance. Cool, when it’s real, doesn’t need to be explained. It’s the quality that emerges when someone is deeply rooted in who they are, uninterested in who they are not, and unconcerned with who others think they should be.
We need to be careful with the metrics we adopt. Not just for ourselves, but for the generations watching. If we define cool by dominance and extroversion, we risk marginalizing the quiet leaders, the deep thinkers, the calm creatives, the grounded mentors. We risk telling kids that who they are isn’t enough unless they’re louder, wilder, more visible.
And what a loss that would be.
Because maybe real cool is not about being a spotlight. Maybe it’s about being a steady light in someone else’s darkness.
So no, I don’t agree with the study’s conclusion. I understand where it comes from – what culture, what climate, what narratives feed it – but I also know that if I were to model my life on that version of cool, I would feel emptier, not fuller.
I’d rather be calm than charismatic. Clear than clever. Gracious than grand.
And if that makes me uncool by today’s definition, I’ll take it.
Because I’m not interested in performing relevance. I’m far more interested in living a life that feels honest and whole.
And that, to me, will always be the coolest thing of all.