Why I broke up with all my dating apps

Dating apps are a popular way for people to get to know each other. But it can also come at a high personal cost

As a single, twentysomething millennial, there’s nothing more humbling—or humiliating, let’s be real—than dating apps. Possibility was the name of the game. Of the hundreds of people in your stack, you might possibly swipe right on someone cute and actually interesting. You might possibly match with them. Possibly start talking. Possibly go on a date, fall in love, get serious, yadda yadda yadda. 

The chances are slim, but never zero. 

For people who have an addictive personality (guilty) and grew up in the golden age of romantic comedies (guilty again), many of us took the possibility of something and ran with it. But then again, the course of true love never did run smooth.

I’m a mid-sized woman, and that doesn’t necessarily bode well when it comes to finding love in a place where people put skinny women on a pedestal. Being shamed by my family for my weight since childhood had built estates of insecurities in me. But those insecurities didn’t stop me from wanting to find love. 

I wanted that Sunday kind of love. The type I saw on the screen when Mr. Darcy helped Elizabeth Bennet on to the carriage then flexed his hand. Jukebox in tow, I wanted someone to play my favorite song outside my window begging for my attention. The type of love that carried you from youth until your hair turned gray. 

And I saw dating apps as a possibility to meet someone for that kind of love. 

And honey was I wrong. 

Spooky stats

In the five years I’ve been on those apps and the hundreds of men I’ve matched with, I can recall over a hundred “nice boobs” or “im looking for fun ;)” messages and less than 30 decent conversations. Of those less than 30 decent conversations, around half ghosted me unprompted and the other half led to interesting situationships; with one being long distance and over a year long. 

Less than 10 actually materialized into first dates. And zero turned into second dates.

And if I had to describe those dates in a phrase, it would be “comedically catastrophic.”

I’ve sat through first date conversations about someone’s Yeezy collection after he told me “You’re less feminine than I expected” and then split the bill even though he ordered way more than I did. 

I’ve also had a date come an hour late because of traffic and then cut it short to meet someone else immediately after. And if you’re thinking, “Oh at least you didn’t have to pay for anything,” you’d be wrong. Because this time, I paid for everything. 

“Kiss enough frogs and you’d be rewarded with a prince” was basically my mantra for the majority of my 20s. And my poor friends had to sit with me after bailing me out on dates where I’d wait in the bathroom because my date would not stop caressing my leg even after I said it made me uncomfortable. 

But still I persisted. Why? For possibilities’ sake. 

It’s not you, it’s me—but for real this time

It was only after my last failed talking stage when he unmatched me because he was getting back together with his ex (and after I played confidante and therapist) when I realized that this was insane and I needed to do better. 

Dating apps were also the problem. They never showed you who you wanted to match with, commodify women, and gamified the experience into an addictive feedback loop to keep you on it. And I fully bought in and ended up an addict. 

Then it was the men. It would be easy to blame the men I’ve met on these apps, but that wouldn’t paint a fair story. Yes, they were mostly awful and definitely not worthy of my time, but I was also the problem. I used dating apps as a form of entertainment at best, and the epitome of validation at worst. 

This entire time, my friends would yell at me to “Love yourself before you start loving anyone else.” I’d tearfully nod and thank them for their support and advice, but keep swiping and getting hurt anyway. 

I am the horse they led to water, but I’d never drink the truth juice. 

Thank you, Whitney Houston

After a night out with friends where I recounted all my greatest dating blunders, the truth finally hit me square in the jaw earlier this year. Like a scene from a movie, a supercut of my entire dating life flashed before my eyes. Five years of getting ghosted, love bombed, paying for dates, getting stood up, long distance situationships, and sexual harassment culminated in one realization: I do not deserve this. 

Hallelujah I see the light. 

I didn’t just not love myself, I didn’t like myself. In my own eyes, I was annoying, needy, clingy, and just not deserving of love. There was never a bar to begin with. All they’d have to do is say “Hey” and I’d immediately jump at the possibility. 

At the bottom of the problem barrel filled to the brim with dating apps and men laid my actual issue: self-loathing. For years, I’ve treated myself like absolute garbage and allowed people to follow suit. 

“In one fell swoop, deleting all three of my dating apps freed up at least 800 megabytes of storage on my phone and myself from the cycle of addiction.”

I didn’t just not love myself, I didn’t like myself. In my own eyes, I was annoying, needy, clingy, and just not deserving of real love—even if I chased after it like a basic bitch at a Stanley Cup warehouse sale. 

Whitney was right all along (duh!). Learning to love yourself is the greatest love of all. And realizing all the bullshit I went through to get to this point was a tough lesson, but a necessary one. 

So uninstall it was. 

In one fell swoop, deleting all three of my dating apps freed up at least 800 megabytes of storage on my phone and myself from the cycle of addiction. I was free, single, and genuinely stopped putting “finding love” on the top of my priority list. 

Months later, I haven’t relapsed. I’m still putting myself first, figuring out my boundaries, and what I actually want. It’s hard, but I finally love myself enough to know that I won’t mind if I never find anyone. 

My own company is more than enough, and it’s going to take someone really special for me to share it.