Dating apps promise possibility. Somewhere between the gym photos, the holding of the fish, and the photos with another person that they claim is their "sister", there might be someone you really connect with.
You just have to find them.
And by "find them", I mean make a split-second decision based on six carefully (mostly) selected photos, a short bio, and a handful of prompts written by someone who's been asked to describe their "key strengths".
You're wanting to be honest, but not too honest. Funny but not trying too hard. Interesting, but not as if you're saying "Please chose me; I have hobbies". You're trying to fit a whole person into a few lines, while somehow making sure strangers understand you'd like connection - not just someone to send "u up?" at 2am.
Then comes the swiping...
Left. Left. Maybe. Left. "Oh, they seem nice. Wait, is that an ex in the second photo?" Left. Another one holding a more-than-likely-compensating trout. Left.
You begin to wonder whether you're being too picky. Then you remember you're allowed to have preferences. Then you wonder whether your preferences are reasonable. Then you get tired and find yourself swiping left on everyone because it's easier than deciding whether you want to date a person whose bio only says "ask me...".
And then, a match...
A tiny notification, yet somehow it gives you a small rush. A stranger looked at your photos and bio and thought "yes, possibly". For a moment, the app has delivered a little hit of hope directly to your phone.
Then the pressure arrives...
...Now you have to say something good. Not just "hey" - unless you want the conversation to disappear into the great unreturned-message void. You need an opening that feels natural (in an unnatural setting) and funny, shows you read their profile, and somehow doesn't sound like you've been workshopping it with a committee.
You type something. Delete it. Type something else. Consider making a joke about their cat. Decide it might be weird to open with a question of whether their cat is "feeline fine". Send a normal message. Then read it back and wonder if you shouldn't have put that extra wink emoji at the end.
The match was the high. The first message was the exam.
And sometimes, after all that, they don't even reply.
Being aired by a stranger you have never met is a peculiar feeling. No one has broken up with you. No relationship has ended. You probably don't even know their surname. And yet, they you are, checking the app as if the persons' response might determine whether you are charming, attractive, or fundamentally bad at conversation.
You know they don't owe you a reply. You know people get busy, change their mind, or swipe without thinking much about it. You know all of this, while have second thoughts yourself about even being on the apps - and yet you still notice when the conversation stops.
It's strange how quickly an almost-connection can take up space in your head. One minute they're a face on a screen, the next you're wondering whether your last message was too enthusiastic, too boring, or accidently gave off the energy of someone who owns some sort of weird collection.
And then there's the other kind of match; the person who seems interested, only for the conversation to turn quickly to sex...
...There's nothing wrong with wanting something casual if everyone is honest and on the same page. The difficult part is when you're hoping to get to know someone and they seem to be speed-running their way to a hook-up. You can feel as though you've both opened the same app but signed up for entirely different experiences.
It can be deflating. You want to be wanted, but you also want to be seen. You want to find someone to find you attractive, but not to treat your whole personality like an optional extra they can skip past on the way to asking what you're wearing.
Sometimes the mismatch is obvious straight away. Sometimes it takes a little longer to show itself. Either way, you're trying to work out whether to keep chatting, clarify what you're looking for, or politely leave the conversation before it becomes a job you didn't apply for.
Dating apps make it easy to meet people, but they can also make people feel strangely disposable. There are always more profiles, more matches, more potential conversations waiting just one swipe away. It can start to feel less like meeting someone and more like browsing an online shop where every item has a face and a prompt about pineapple on pizza.
But people aren't products. A bio can tell you a little about someone; it can't tell you how they listen, how they treat people, whether they make you laugh in person, or whether the conversation flows when neither of you has time to edit your answers. A profile is a first impression, not the whole person - and yours isn't the whole story, either.
I try to remember that when I swipe. I also try to remember it when someone doesn't reply. Their silence might mean any number of things; most of which have nothing to do with my value. I don't have to turn every missed match into a verdict on whether I'm likeable.
Still, I'd be lying if I said the apps don't get to me sometimes. They can make me feel hopeful, self-conscious, amused, frustrated, and exhausted - all without even getting off my sofa. There's entertainment in it, sure. There's possibility. But there's also the strange business of putting yourself out there and hoping a stranger gets the right idea from a few photos and a sentence about liking long walks.
So I kept trying - not because every swipe will lead somewhere, but because of a hope that one might. I can be curious without treating every match as a promise. I can be disappointed without deciding I've failed. And I can keep my own boundaries, even when someone else's idea of dating is different from my own.
For now, swiping will be less pressured. To write a bio that sounds like me, not a marketing campaign. But I also need to know who I am in order to do that. To enjoy the small excitement of a match without handing it the keys to my self-esteem.
And if the conversation goes nowhere? Well, at least I haven't agreed to a date with someone whose entire personality is "ask me" - though admittedly, I may still be wondering what the answer was.
And maybe, at some point, courage means deleting the apps - not because I'm giving up finding someone, but because I want to try meeting people without turning them into profiles first. The old-fashioned way sounds terrifying; making eye contact, starting a conversation, risking a real-time awkward silence with no chance at editing my reply. But there's something lovely about it, too. A connection might begin over coffee, at a meeting, through a friend, or in the middle of an ordinary day - not with a swipe, but with a moment we both choose to stay in.
What if, in the quiet and ordinary moments, we find the most meaningful connections, rather than in the endless virtual stream of curated faces?
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