Dating (Again) at 35: A Lesson in Hope, Heartbreak, and Hinge

So, I’ve officially re-entered the dating world, and if I’m being honest, I’m not sure how I feel about it. Actually, that’s a lie. I know exactly how I feel about it: not loving it.

For someone who exclusively watches rom-coms, it’s hard not to believe that love should be big, grand, all-consuming. The soundtrack swells, the meet-cute happens, the montage rolls, and suddenly everything makes sense.

Except now, my version of “meeting cute” involves a pixelated photo on Hinge, a few witty messages, and hoping he’s not five inches shorter or emotionally unavailable in person.

You match. You chat. You think, maybe this one’s different. You actually feel something hopeful. Then the first date happens, and by some miracle, he’s even better in person. You laugh, you flirt, you go on dates two, three, four, and so on. You agree to be exclusive and get off the apps.

Yes, this story is based on real events.

I really thought I got lucky this time, that maybe it was finally my turn for the plot twist that ends with “and they lived happily ever after.” He felt like my reward for making such a bold, brave move to the UK.

But the credits rolled much earlier than expected…

Over the weekend, I rewatched Something’s Gotta Give in honor of Diane Keaton’s passing. In the movie, after her one-week romance, she’s completely devastated and says:

“I felt something with you I never really knew existed. Do you know what that’s like, after a 20-year marriage?”

And while my nine-year relationship wasn’t quite a twenty-year marriage, it was still substantial. So when you finally feel something new after that, something exciting and unexpected, it hits deep, even if it only lasts two months. You let your guard down. You let yourself hope. And when it ends, it’s not just disappointment you feel, it’s whiplash and confusion.

Because it’s not just losing someone, it’s losing what you thought could finally be your new beginning. And since I met him in the second week of this new chapter, it really did feel like — dare I say — fate.

Now I’m sitting here wondering: how do you find that impossible balance between hope and self-protection? Between letting yourself get excited about someone and not getting so high that the fall breaks you?

Do you stay the optimistic girl who still believes in grand love stories? Or do you become the guarded realist who expects the rug to be pulled out any second?

Maybe, like everything else in my life lately, it’s about learning to live in the middle, letting myself feel the spark without making it the whole fire.

So that’s where I’m at. Two months back in the dating world, one heartbreak (okay, slightly dramatic) down, and still trying to believe that maybe — just maybe — the next story will have a better ending.