MY NAME IS LILY YOUNG AND I LOVE HOLES IN MY SOCKS.

A short ESSAY

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I love my holey socks. They are tiny, unintentional memoirs. They don’t arrive all at once in a sudden tear; they sneak in gradually, and grow through time. The giggly insecurity people get when holey socks are revealed in a public setting they weren’t quite prepared for, is such a beautifully human feeling. These imperfections tell stories of our time and impact. The frayed threads are like laugh lines—evidence not of failure, but of use.

Our clothes and the objects we surround ourselves with are loyal historians. They cling to us through routines and reinventions. They stretch when we grow, soften when we slow down, and thin where we insist on moving forward. My socks, humble as they are, know more about my daily life than most people do. They have endured rushed mornings, lazy Sundays, cold tiles, and long lost wanderings. 

And mending it—that’s where the romance truly lies. Sewing up a hole feels like writing a sequel. Each stitch is a small act of faith, a decision that this story isn’t finished yet and should be preserved. The patch becomes a badge of care, a visible reminder that preservation can be more beautiful than perfection. 

In a world that loves the new, I prefer the worn. A hole in my sock is not damage. It’s documentation—with a bit of charm peeking through. I love my holey socks.