When a relationship implodes, starting over can feel like you’ve been punted out of the life you painstakingly curated. New York Times best-selling chef Jake Cohen knows the exact sensation firsthand. On Abe and Erin Lichy’s Come Together, he jokes that he “got married really young” at the age of 24, and, despite an “incredible” partnership, “it just didn’t work out.”
Cohen’s divorce didn’t just end a chapter—it opened a trap door. One day, he was the “Susie homemaker, married Jewish boy,” the next he was regaling friends at a charity lunch, “telling me about this rave you went to.” The freedom was dizzying, but it wasn’t reckless; it was permission to reload his playlist with bass drops instead of wedding marches.
The real magic happened off the dance floor. “I lived my twenties like my thirties, and now I’m living my thirties like my twenties—and it’s so much better,” he beams, crediting deep dives into The Artist’s Way, morning pages, Abraham Hicks, and a full-tilt week at the Hoffman Process for sanding down old patterns. Reinvention, it turns out, needs as much inner scaffolding as it does outer sparkle.
Blank pages are terrifying precisely because they’re blank. Yet Cohen frames that emptiness as a backstage pass. “I’m such a chaser of new experience, and I’m such a ‘say yes’…kind of person,” he says. Step one is auditing what the breakup muted—friends you ghosted, hobbies you shelved, outfits still in dry cleaner bags—and reinviting whatever still lights you up. The point isn’t to replace your ex’s toothbrush, it’s to remember why you bought electric blue eyeliner in the first place.
Even epic glow-ups need boundaries. A rabbi friend offered Cohen the mantra that now rules his calendar: “The most important promise is a promise you make to yourself.” Before any night out, he scans next week’s deadlines and decides whether to “go out, go wild” or stay in. Guardrails don’t kill spontaneity; they keep post-rave schnitzel from colliding with cookbook photo shoots.
Adopting this mindset doesn’t require techno clubs or German street food. It’s as simple as making one non-negotiable deal with yourself—maybe eight hours of sleep on work nights or no rage-shopping on credit. Keeping that promise signals that your new life can actually sustain itself.
Cohen’s phone wallpaper could double as a screensaver for every newly single millennial: “I don’t chase. I attract.” Detachment isn’t laziness; it’s energetic feng shui. He explains that obsession “turns off your ability to manifest…You have to be in the receiving mode, vibrating in a way that you know it’s coming.”
Practically, that means purging the drawer of sentimental clutter, muting your ex on socials, or ditching coffee dates that feel like homework. Space is an RSVP slot the universe loves to fill.
Not every reinvention takes a straight line victory lap. A friend coached Cohen through one anxious spiral. “Imagine a circling dog,” he explains. “You’re just in the circling stage.” Instead of forcing answers, he learned to treat those loops as reconnaissance missions—each lap gathering intel on what feels good and what still stings. Next time anxiety spikes, remember you’re circling, not stalling, and let the process finish its spin.
Influencers tally likes, Cohen tallies laughter. “The joy is the only KPI that matters,” he shrugs, reminding us that spreadsheets can’t measure the thrill of a 6 a.m. rooftop after a night at Queens’ techno haven, Basement. If an activity tanks your joy metric—whether it’s doom-scrolling your ex’s new fling or forcing yourself into spin class because someone said it’s “healing”—pivot without guilt. A breakup erases a shared calendar, not your entire personality. Cohen’s renaissance—divorced at 24, raving until dawn at 34, and dropping a cookbook cheekily titled Dinner Party Animal—proves that starting over can be a deluxe upgrade when it’s fueled by self-respect, open curiosity, and unapologetic fun.
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