Breaking up with the dating app

Now that all my dating apps are uninstalled, I don’t have it in me to be ashamed of admitting I’ve had my fair (borderline desperate) share of window shopping for potential significant others. After all, my job doesn’t really give me space to meet a lot of people, so I’ve had many accounts set up on different apps.

There have been a few “matches” that led to so many boring conversations that I’m still not sure whether they actually found me interesting or if one of us accidentally swiped right. Needless to say, none of those “matches” equaled actual compatibility, nor have any meaningful relationships sprouted out of them. Zero actual matches with people, and instead, matches between characters and curated personas.

The only other period when I didn’t have a dating app was in mid-2024, when I thought I didn’t need one anymore because I’d met someone to fill that void in real life. But once that ended, I found myself dealing with a severe case of withdrawal from romantic affection. Suddenly, the dating apps were back. But something was different this time. It was no longer exciting. It wasn’t fun. And then I realized that the whole time I had invited the apps into my life, it had not been fun at all. Then I came to an even greater realization: dating apps will never work for me because my self-worth demands fairness to myself and my conscience demands fairness for others.

Bumble, my most frequently used one, has a feature called “best photo,” which can determine which of the first three Bumble profile photos gets the most attention and then place it on top. The temptation would be to gather all the pictures with your best angles. Then, from that selection, weed out any pictures that don’t contribute to the persona you’re trying to present. Come up with a witty bio, one that aligns with your persona. This is not a one-time process. It’s an ongoing process of updating every time something impressive (and hence, attractive) happens to you. By the end of it, you’re your own brand manager.

This constant curation has worn me out over the years. At first, I thought I was being pretentious while everyone else was being real, but from the conversations I’ve had with people there, it became clear to me that everyone there was presenting a persona that was far different from their actual selves.

I had an entanglement with a person who had fallen in love with an idea of me that he had created for himself, and got very disappointed when I felt safe enough to reveal my humanity. After that, my growing self-worth gnawed at me to be immediately authentic, as well as unapologetically potentially unlikable. The act of depending on the algorithm and on strangers on the internet for acknowledgment that you look good in the pictures wasn’t sustainable. It was also happening during a critical period of my life when I was being misunderstood by many around me, and I needed to be sure of myself, no matter what. It wasn’t fair to myself anymore that I wasn’t applying the lessons I had been learning in my platonic and professional life to my romantic life.

It also wasn’t fair for everyone else that I wasn’t giving them my real self. The heartbreak had forced me to reflect that we really could fall in love with the idea we have of others instead of who they actually are. If someone could fall in love with a persona I didn’t create, who can say that can’t happen for a persona in a dating app that I did actively create?

If you want something sustainable, you would have to eventually break down that mask. They would have to relearn you all over again, and that isn’t necessarily what most sign up for. How could I possibly demand that of someone and expect them to be fine with me going, “Actually, I lied on that profile. I’m not as interesting or likable as I seem to be. Here are facts about me I intentionally left out”?

I don’t think love works that way: “Love me first and then I’ll tell you the unlovable things later.” I think we are supposed to know people with the good and the bad, and then see if there is anyone you’re willing to love despite the less-than-desirable qualities. My life had already re-routed itself to be open to being unlikeable. I could easily just be honest and put the most authentic version of myself on the app, but that would mean getting back into the cycle of curation, only this time subscribing to a different set of criteria.

Of course, some people do end up together after meeting on dating apps—all the best for them, absolutely. I can never make assumptions, and I don’t have any ideas about the conditions that led them to that happy ending, but what I do know for myself is this: I’m not sticking around to find out.

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Reil Farcio, 26, is an aspiring essayist, poet, and private school teacher from Iloilo City, Philippines. His greatest muse is the unfolding mess of his 20s.