Swipe. Swipe. Swipe. For a while I was swiping so much I was barely thinking. Dating apps had hijacked my fingers, brain and evenings. I’d swipe left, mindlessly and without even looking, under the table at group dinners or during TV ad breaks. I’d fanatically check my new matches at the end of each day. “This is modern dating,” I’d tell myself. “It’s a job. I have to keep on going. This is the key to my happy ending.”
For months, this was my normality. But unsurprisingly, the lifelong romance I was looking for never materialised. As I sat on my sofa on yet another Sunday night ready to swipe until I ran out of steam, I decided I’d finally had enough. Even if my screen was flooded with likes or messages, my forays into dating app culture had rarely ended with in-person dates. I’d spend hours agonising over a single response – I needed to be funny, cool and captivating but not give too much away. But why was I so desperate to impress a distant stranger trapped behind a screen? What was I doing all the monotonous swiping for? I decided I needed to go cold turkey and figure out why I had been sucked in so completely.
I realised that, a lot of the time, I was swiping out of boredom. Instead of twiddling my thumbs, enjoying the few moments in the day when I had no responsibilities, I’d reach for my phone. The immediate thrill of going through a pile of likes was unlike anything else. I was addicted to the dopamine rush and the feeling of being wanted – “This person likes me,” I’d gush. “This could be the start of our future.”
Then my mind would start its journey of invention, because each new connection would bring with it fresh possibility. As I’d stare at the smiling photos carefully selected by my prospective lover, I’d plan out our life together. I’d envision the ordinary weekday evenings, the things we’d talk about, the holidays and anniversaries. I’d consider their favourite meal, the time they went to bed and how many siblings they might have. In just a few short seconds, I’d draw them a backstory so perfect and full they’d never be able to live up to my creation. And all before we’d even sat down face to face.
But worse than the sense of promise was its fleeting nature. No sooner had I dreamed up a fantasy life with a potential match, I’d be on to daydreaming about the next person. Everything existed in hypothetical passing flashes. There were endless possible connections out there: all I had to do was keep swiping and waiting. Even when messages were exchanged and the idea of a date was floated, more often than not I’d cancel. I’d already be on to dreaming of something and someone new just one, two or 100 clicks away.
To give myself the best chance at romance, I knew I had to look good and that my profile must be regularly updated. On holidays, I itched to get pictures of me looking sun-kissed. At family meals I’d grin, waiting for the camera to click. I’d analyse the photos in forensic detail, zooming in on my face just to make sure it was perfect. All of it fuelled an unhealthy obsession with appearance.
Despite the countless hours I spent glued to my phone, the endless conveyor belt of matches never brought me any joy. Dates I’d romanticised for weeks turned out to be below-average hours that dragged by. I’d bore myself by exchanging with strangers the same job details, facts about my housemates and things I liked to do at the weekend. I’d reel out the same jokes and same stories in the same well-practised jargon on dates. But I always left feeling hopeless – even with so many options, I wasn’t having any luck. The early fun and excitement of what the apps promised slowly moved into something that felt like a chore. Though I once skipped into dates feeling like the star of my own romcom, I soon felt jaded, realising they would likely go nowhere. I felt like a hamster on a wheel. I was running constantly, and I was exhausted by the relentless churn.
Sometimes I still pick up my phone expecting dating apps to be there, like an old friend. But most of the time I don’t miss them. Now they’re banished from my screen, I’ve entered a new phase of encouraging relationships founded in reality. And although they haven’t always ended in success, it has been refreshing to lean into conversations in bars, reconnect with people I’ve not seen for years and be open to possibility.
As each week goes by, I’ve started to care less about my romantic endeavours too. Instead I throw myself into friendships and have more time to work, and my screen time has gone down dramatically. The people I already know have become my priority, and I feel more fulfilled by their company than I’ve ever been with anyone I’d spoken to on an app. I’ve realised that life isn’t a race to be played out on dating apps – it’s about living in the moment.
Deep down I’m a romantic at heart, and I still fantasise about my idyllic future. I’m just not totally consumed with finding ways to make it happen. But who knows? There are thousands of people out there still looking.
Anya Ryan is a freelance journalist
