I Stopped Trying to ‘Win’ at Dating and Finally Learned What Love Is

Three years ago, I found myself lying on my bedroom floor at 11 p.m., phone screen glowing above my face, thumb hovering over a Hinge prompt that read: “I’ll know it’s time to delete this app when…”

I typed: “…I stop feeling like I’m auditioning for a role I didn’t even write.”

Then I deleted the whole sentence, closed the app, and ordered pad thai. Alone. Again.

If you’ve been on the apps for more than six months, you know the exact feeling I’m talking about. It’s not loneliness, exactly. It’s optimization fatigue. The sense that every swipe, every first-date drink order, every carefully curated “candid” photo of you holding a friend’s baby or summiting a mountain you’d never climb again — is all part of some silent competition. And you’re losing.

Here’s what nobody tells you about modern dating: we’ve turned it into a sport. And sports have winners and losers.

The scoreboard you didn’t ask for

Think about the language we use. “He’s out of my league.” “She’s a catch.” “I need to lock it down.” “He ghosted me — so I lost that round.” Even our friends fuel the fire: “You could do better.” “Don’t settle.” “The next one will be an upgrade.”

We talk about human beings like they’re used cars with trim levels.

I did this for years. I kept a mental spreadsheet. Height, job title, who texted first, who liked whose Instagram story, how many hours between replies. I treated romance like a turn-based strategy game. If I played my cards right — cute but not thirsty, interested but not clingy, funny but not trying too hard — I’d win the relationship. And winning meant: they liked me more than I liked them.

Spoiler: that strategy worked. I “won” several short-term situationships where the other person was more invested than me. They felt like victories for about two weeks. Then they felt like hollow, cold apartments where I’d forgotten to pay the heating bill.

The thing I was running from

It took a truly awful date to crack the code. I met “Mark” (not his real name, but definitely his real energy) at a wine bar that was too loud for talking and too dim for seeing. He spent twenty minutes explaining why his ex was a narcissist, then asked if I wanted to come back to his place to “watch Succession.”

I said no, walked to the train, and on the platform, I had this weird little epiphany: I wasn’t even disappointed. I was relieved. Because for the first time in a year, I wasn’t trying to win anything. I just showed up, watched a guy be a walking red flag, and left. No strategy. No scoreboard. No what if he’s the one and I blow it?

That’s when I realized: the “winning” mindset was just fear in a nice suit. Fear of being alone. Fear of picking wrong. Fear that if I didn’t treat dating like a competitive sport, I’d end up with nothing.

But love doesn’t live in that headspace. Love lives in the opposite place.

The boring, messy, un-optimizable truth

Real relationships — the ones that last longer than a pumpkin spice latte season — don’t look good on paper. They look like two people who’ve seen each other throw up from food poisoning and still want to cuddle afterward. They look like “hey, I’m grumpy today for no reason, can you just sit next to me while I play Zelda?” They look like letting your partner be wrong about something stupid without needing to win the argument.

I’ve been with my current partner for two years now. We met because I stopped “looking” and just started doing things I actually liked — which for me meant a terrible weekly trivia night at a dive bar. He was the guy who knew way too much about Soviet cinematography and smelled like old books and bad decisions. Our first conversation was about whether a hot dog is a sandwich (it’s not, and I will die on this hill).

I didn’t try to impress him. I didn’t angle for a second date. I just… existed. And somehow, that was enough.

Here’s the kicker: he’s not “out of my league” by any metric my old spreadsheet would recognize. He forgets to text back. He owns three pairs of the same gray sweatpants. He once ate a block of cheddar cheese for dinner because he “didn’t feel like cooking.” On paper, my dating app profile would have swiped left on him for low-effort photos alone.

But when I had a panic attack at 2 a.m. last March, he didn’t say “what’s wrong?” He just got up, made tea, and put his hand on my back until I stopped shaking. No performance. No script. Just a person who showed up.

So here’s my advice, for what it’s worth

Stop trying to win. Seriously. Throw out the league rankings. Ignore the “rules” about who texts first or how long to wait. If you want to send a double text, send it. If you want to say “I like you” before they do, say it. The right person won’t keep score — they’ll just be glad you showed up.

And for the love of God, get off the apps if they make you feel like a product on a shelf. Go to the ugly bar with the sticky floors. Join that weird hobby group nobody’s heard of. Talk to the stranger in the grocery line about whether avocados are worth the existential dread of never catching them at the right ripeness.

Love isn’t a game you win. It’s a boring, beautiful, occasionally infuriating thing that happens when two people stop performing and start being.

Now if you’ll excuse me, my partner just sent me a photo of a cat sitting in a sink. I’m going to text back immediately, without waiting a “cool” amount of time. And I’m not sorry.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.