You Are Not Bad at Dating. You Are Hungry.

My grandfather never went to the market hungry.

He said hunger makes you reckless.

“Eat first,” he would tell me, slicing cheese with military precision. “Otherwise, you will flirt with rotten tomatoes.”

Then he would take his wicker basket and walk slowly through the market stalls, inspecting the produce with caution, refusing to be fooled.

“If you are starving,” he used to say, “everything looks good.”

I thought he meant vegetables.

He did not.

…

I used to date hungry.

I did not beg. I had standards. I had taste.

But I was hungry.

Hungry for attention.
Hungry for validation.
Hungry for the small electric jolt of being wanted.

But hunger distorts judgment.

When you are starving, you mistake intensity for compatibility. You interpret chemistry as fate. You confuse anxiety with excitement because your nervous system does not know the difference.

When you are full, you explore.

When you are hungry, you grab.

The first man I dated after a long dry spell was avoidant but charismatic enough to disguise it. The first evening we met, he was attentive, intense, generous with compliments. Electric. I mistook that intensity for depth.

By the next month, I noticed how he opened emotionally and then retreated. How every moment of closeness was followed by a smooth withdrawal. He gave me just enough to stay invested.

We talk about being “bad at dating” as if romance were a technical skill. As if you can secure a masterclass titled “How to Identify an Emotionally Available Adult.”

But most people are not bad at dating.

They are undernourished. Just as I was.

…

When you believe love is rare, you negotiate with behavior that should disqualify someone instantly.

You explain away red flags because you fear returning to zero. You tolerate inconsistency because you believe this is the best you can get.

My grandmother stored extra. Extra flour. Extra oil. Extra soap under the sink. She survived shortages. So even when abundance was normal, her nervous system was not. Scarcity rewires perception. It lingers.

Dating from lack works the same way.

You fear the shelves will be empty. You fear you will miss your window. So you commit to men you do not even like that much. You say yes to situationships with impressive vocabulary but no direction.

If you experienced emotional inconsistency early, your body learned that love comes with unpredictability. So you adapt. You become wary. You track tone shifts. You analyze responses.

This is hunger.

Hunger makes you romanticize potential. And you play along because you really do believe that with all the right moves, love will stay. Hunger makes you hang out at tables where you are barely nourished.

The dating advice industry thrives on this. It teaches strategy and reduces attachment styles to personality quizzes. Options multiply. Choice expands. But depth declines.

You scan for potential instead of presence.

Hunger does not care about compatibility. It only craves access.

…

The healthiest relationships I have witnessed did not start with fireworks. They began with steadiness. There were no guessing games or vanishing acts. No cortisol spikes disguised as butterflies.

But calm feels boring when you are used to adrenaline, right?

So the first time I dated a reliable guy, I almost sabotaged it. He called when he said he would. He answered direct questions. My body searched for the twist. Where is the drama?

I thought something was missing. Calm felt suspicious. That is how you know you have been dating hungry.

Dating from surplus feels different.

For the first time, I was not shopping empty. I had friends. Work I loved. A life that did not hinge on romantic confirmation. I had eaten before entering the market.

Standards felt natural. I did not need to decode him or prove myself. I did not need to secure his attention like it was a limited-time offer.

When you feel full, sparks do not do it for you anymore. You notice patterns.

You stop asking, “Does he like me?” and focus on, “Do I feel steady here?” You lose interest in being chosen because your main priority is choosing well.

Hunger makes you chase intensity.

Sufficiency makes you value ease.

My grandfather moved slowly through markets because he could. He never panicked at empty stalls. If the tomatoes looked bruised, he left. If the price felt inflated, he walked away. There was always another market day.

Abundance makes you patient. It makes you selective. Lack, on the other hand, makes you frantic.

So, let me remind you. You are not bad at dating. You just date like someone who fears the shelves will empty.

To change that, feed yourself properly. Fill your days. Expand your world. Stabilize your nervous system so it does not confuse longing with love.

When you are full, you can afford to walk past what does not nourish you.

You stop treating basic respect like premium access. You enter conversations curious, not desperate. You can leave tables without drama. You can look at charm and say, “Not enough.”

That’s the difference.

These days, I try not to enter conversations starving. I build a life that tastes good on its own. I let attraction simmer instead of boil. I watch for consistency just like my grandfather scanned for quality.

If love comes, it will find me browsing, not starving.

Now tell me,

If you stopped dating from hunger, who would still qualify?