How to Love Yourself: 13 Expert Tips From Jemima Kirke

11.11.2025, 18:35 elle.com

Tender Tips is a new advice column by Jemima Kirke, dishing out unfiltered guidance on everything from love and sex to all the messy moments in between. This month, she’s answering reader questions about loving yourself—no fluff, just real talk. Want to be included next time? Drop her a line at tendertips@elle.com and get in touch.

I live in NYC and there’s no shortage of lonely and disconnected homeless people here. Try offering them a smoke, a snack, or some money and then strike up a conversation. Unlike your friends, you really never know what they’re gonna say. Maybe you’ll go on an adventure together. Who knows where you’ll end up? Carpe diem. When you get home, you’ll still feel lonely and disconnected—just like you do when you leave a friendly dinner party or family gathering. Because connection has nothing to do with the “how” of it. You know how. I too prefer the comfortability, convenience, and romanticism of despair.

You throw a hell of a party so they forgive you and/or like you again. All the best parties are themed. Here are some ideas:

My impression of people is rarely affected by the way someone else talks to or about them. Witnessing someone belittle or degrade another in a group setting is awkward, because everyone understands something that only one person doesn’t: that they are being a dick.

Not at all! My dad walked out on my mum after 32 years of marriage for a cocktail waitress more than 30 years younger who wore angel wings to their wedding, and she was in her 40s!

I’m sorry there is so much pressure on you guys to “get the most out of your youth.” You’re constantly being reminded not to take your your youth for granted. As if being young is a luxury not all of us are afforded. Youth is fleeting, but it’s hard to enjoy something that threatens you with loss and regret. It’s no wonder people dread getting older. We make it sound like the end of the fucking road. I’m glad my youth is behind me, squandered and definitely not lived to the fullest.

Everyone knows that being cool outside of the city is more of a hindrance than an endorsement. It’s a tale as old as time: The tenderfooted country boy ties a bandana to a stick, slings it over his shoulder, and sets out to make his fortune in the big city. When he gets there it’s not at all like he imagined. After countless rejections and thrashings, he ends up turning tricks on 42nd Street. An old man goes down on him and he weeps as he realizes that home is where the heart is. Go home, kid.

Probably not. I don’t really have any failures or insecurities, and I’m still unhappy.

When I was younger, I was hot and emotionally unavailable. One guy I dated was a painter. Kind of a good one. He said that if I was a color, I’d be pink and black (kind of on-the-nose, but okay). I told him that he would be silver. I stopped responding to his calls for a while. One day I came home from school and found a box on the stoop with my name on it. Inside was a pig-shaped cutting board painted hot pink, a mango coated in black spray paint, and a paring knife spray painted silver. I thought that was a pretty good way to deal with it.

I think we should get rid of the idea of “losing” our virginity. The virtuosity and preciousness of being a virgin is not just outdated, it’s actually kinda gross. To answer your question, you have sex for the first time when you’re feeling turned on with someone you trust and you have a nice leisurely amount of time to spend together, in a private space.

You are cosplaying your more stylish friends. We all are. My entire wardrobe is comprised of fleeting moments of hope that I could look as stylish and as beautiful as some other woman I once saw.

For a while there I bought into the idea of my “inner child.” But, much like learning that unicorns, mermaids, and faeries don’t exist, I find myself angered by the varnishing of an ascetic reality. There isn’t a child living inside me. What’s living inside me are some deeply antisocial traits that I haven’t outgrown. I think the medical term is narcissism. I wish there was more compassion for it, but support resources for narcissists seem to be limited to the recipients. I guess when we say our “inner child is running the show,” it’s a way of smuggling in a plea for mercy—to be treated like the suffering folks that we are.

No, never.

Tell them you had no idea that smoking was harmful until now. Thank them and tell them you will stop later. When they are gone.

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