Close to a year of intentionally avoiding romance looks honourable on paper.
From the outside, my absence from dating looks like I’m working on myself, achieving my goals without distractions, or maybe on a healing journey heavily inspired by reading Eat, Pray, Love (2006). In reality, I’m mislabeling fear as “self-care” and hoping that no one notices.
My experience with dating has always been… complicated. Before my last relationship, I was anxiously attached in the most cliché way. I needed communication, consistency, and constant reassurance, because even the smallest change in my partner’s behaviour would send me into a mental spiral. I felt everything with painful intensity, but at least I knew what I wanted.
Then I dated my ex.
Calling him a criminal isn’t a metaphor, by the way. One day, I thought we were in love, the next, I uncovered truths that made me feel like I needed to testify in court. I left that relationship not only heartbroken, but feeling like my entire brain chemistry had been rewired.
Since then, I’ve developed what my therapist calls a “disorganized attachment style,” but I’d describe it as torment. I crave closeness but push people away before they can leave me. I show vulnerability, but panic and build walls so high that I feel lonely behind them. I avoid relationships like the plague, not because I don’t want connection, but because I’m terrified of repeating past mistakes by trusting the wrong person.
So naturally, the universe decided that this was the perfect time for someone to ask me out. Not just anyone; someone who checked every box I’d been pretending not to care about, making my usual “sorry, I’m busy” excuse completely useless.
We ended up getting brunch, which somehow felt both casual and unbearably overwhelming at the same time. I was painfully aware of my own awkwardness. I laughed a little too loudly, stumbled over my words, and caught myself rambling about topics that definitely didn’t need over-explanation.
However, they didn’t seem bothered by it. If anything, they met me with curiosity and calmness that made my anxiety feel less embarrassing. They asked questions, listened, and didn’t flinch when I completely derailed the conversation, just followed my train of thought wherever it decided to go. For the first time in a while, I felt like my personality wasn’t something I needed to hide.
Still, I left brunch replaying every moment in my head, spiralling for hours and convincing myself I’d been too much.
Then I got a text.
“I had a really nice time on our date! I’d love to see you again.”
While I doubt this person will be “the one,” I feel okay admitting that. I’m not suddenly secure, healed, or effortlessly confident. My avoidant instincts didn’t disappear over eggs Benedict and a kiss. I’m just proud that I put myself out there and showed up despite being anxious, awkward, and deeply in my head. Connection didn’t feel dangerous this time, so maybe I’m starting to free myself from the belief that it will inevitably end in chaos. For now, that small possibility feels like enough.
Even with all of my quirks and imperfections, I know that I have a lot to offer. I no longer want to let my past relationships define me or make me assume the worst about everyone before I even give them a chance. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still a hot mess, I still overthink everything, and I still have a lot of work to do to become more secure.
But for the first time in a while, I feel like I’m moving toward something instead of running from it.
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