Dating Apps Are My Third Layer of Hell
and here's why...
To me, dating apps are the third circle of emotional hell, a pixelated pit of non-commitment, breadcrumbing, and trauma-bonding disguised as casual chats and coffee dates.
One week back on Hinge was enough to remind me why I swore off the apps nearly two years ago. The swipe fatigue. The self doubt. The slow realisation that I’m just another profile in someone’s validation rotation.
And yet... I re-downloaded it anyway.
I am what some would call a Relationship Girl; two relationships under my belt and an unfortunate tendency to romanticise the smallest gestures. But lately, the apps both intrigue and disgust me. They're digital playgrounds where everyone’s either playing house or running from commitment like it’s contagious.
And the worst part? Everyone is on them. From my friends and their friends to that one cousin who “swears he’s just looking for someone who hikes.”
We’ve all done it. The breakup download. The bored scroll. The accidental like you didn’t mean to send at 2 am. Followed by the ritual delete-redownload spiral. So if we all know these apps are the Bermuda Triangle of emotional availability, why do we keep going back?
The Generational Shift:
I’m almost 21; two relationships deep, several situationships later, and still trying to imagine marriage for myself in a world where people think "commitment" is asking for too much. Meanwhile, my parents had a house by now. They met, married, and moved in all before 24.
Our generation? We’re still ghosting each other over coffee dates.
Dating, for Gen Z, has turned into a high-stakes game of aesthetic performance, where vulnerability is currency and attention spans are shorter than your average talking stage. We crave connection, but we’re terrified of closeness. We want something real, but flinch the moment it arrives.
The Download, Delete, Despair Loop:
If you’re in your 20s, you know this loop intimately.
You delete the apps for your “mental health.” You redownload them out of “boredom.” You convince yourself this time will be different, because maybe a “nice” guy with a unique set of prompts will save you.
Spoiler: he won’t.
You begin to hope. Then comes the dreaded “been swamped with work” text. Or worse, silence.
Because dating apps are no longer primarily about dating. They’re galleries of ego inflation and temporary escapism. A digital vending machine of emotional detachment, where self-worth gets reduced to swipes and surface level conversations.
The 7 Men You'll Meet on Dating Apps (and Hopefully Run From):
The Man-Child: 27+, lost in life and slightly balding. Still thinks he’s “finding himself”. Thinks not knowing what he wants is endearing. It’s not.
The Non-Committal Menace: The boyfriend experience without the commitment clause. Says “I’m just not in the right place” while asking to meet your family. Will treat you like his girlfriend until you ask for clarity; then disappear faster than his emotional availability.
The Rebounder: Fresh out of a breakup and using you to scrub his ex out of his memory. Talks about his “toxic” ex so much, that you start to miss her too.
The Hook-up Scorer: Says he's new to the city. Wants a “tour” but really wants a bedroom. Bio probably says “adventure partner” and “foodie.” Will breadcrumb for weeks, then vanish post hook-up.
The Failing Indie Artist: Emotionally chaotic. Gaslights with poetry and feminist literature. You’ll find him at a house gig every weekend. Might buy you a plant. Will definitely two-time you with someone with a cooler set of tattoos.
The Serial Finance Cheater: He has the salary, the height, the LinkedIn profile. Also a girlfriend in another postcode. Will convince you his 1.5 dates per month schedule is due to “market volatility.” It’s not. He’s cheating. With you. (Sorry.)
The Love bomber: Tells you “you’re not like the rest” within 30 minutes. Plans a fake future, tries to sleep with you, ghosts you by sunrise. Says things like “I’ve never felt this way before” and means it for exactly 4 hours.
From My Group Chat to Yours:
And it’s not just me…
• One friend met her boyfriend on Hinge. They planned a future, then he dumped her over text, three months in. Recycling the “I’ve just got a lot going on right now” excuse.
• Another went on a date in Paris. Midway through, his phone lit up with a series of phone calls from “Babe❤️.” He insisted it was his “lesbian best friend.” She was evidently not.
• A third got stuck in a long, slow situationship full of “potential.” He left her for someone else without warning. We saw it coming. She didn’t.
We’re all out here collecting dating horror stories like souvenirs. Because we still hope. That’s what makes this all so exhausting; we’re not cynical. We’re exhausted because we still believe.
The Horror: Seeing Someone You Know on a Dating App
If you’ve ever seen an ex, a school mutual, a family friend’s son, or a friend’s ex-boyfriend on a dating app, you know the unique, stomach drop horror that comes with it.
One moment, you're aimlessly swiping to kill time in the back of an Uber. The next? You're staring at someone who made you cry in a restaurant bathroom two summers ago, smiling like he didn’t emotionally evacuate the group chat.
And it's never just their face. It’s the recycled prompts, the smug captions, and the photos you took of them. Suddenly, you're spiralling over his Hinge answers. Worse still? He looks… happy. Like the breakup didn't slow him down for even a day.
I once had a friend send me a screenshot of my ex’s new profile three days post-breakup. I hadn’t eaten in 48 hours. Meanwhile, he was already posing in a new location ready for the next. I sat with that screenshot longer than I’d like to admit. Because it made everything feel transactional. Like I was just a placeholder in his dating timeline.
But here's the truth I wish I'd known sooner: most people on these apps are there because they’re not ready. They're swiping to distract themselves. To ego-soothe. To forget someone else. You are not the exception they're about to change for, you’re the buffer. The pretty picture to make them feel better at night. And you deserve more than being someone’s coping mechanism.
So if you feel your stomach drop at the sight of someone familiar, or if you’ve ever wanted the floor to swallow you after seeing an ex pretending to love hiking, remember this:
The fact that he moved on quickly says everything about him, and nothing about you.
Logging off isn’t weak. It’s not dramatic. It’s reclaiming your peace.
Maybe It’s Not Us, Maybe It’s the Culture:
We joke about ghosting and love bombing, but what we’re really talking about is burnout. We’ve normalised apathy, minimised effort, and glamourised detachment. In a culture that sells vulnerability as a liability, the real radical act is still caring.
Dating app culture wasn’t built for real connection, it was built for engagement. You’re not swiping for love; you’re swiping for dopamine.
The consequences?
We shrink ourselves to seem “chill.”
We agonise over texts like job applications.
We confuse love with attention.
We start to believe asking for the bare minimum makes us needy or irrational.
But apathy isn’t hot. And you are not difficult for wanting clarity, or romance, or someone who actually shows up.
If you’re tired? That means you still believe in something real.
That’s not a weakness. That’s hope, without the delusion.
The Final Swipe:
Maybe in another universe, these apps work the way they were meant to.
Maybe we match with people who mean what they say. Maybe they show up. Maybe effort isn't a dying language.
But until then, here's what I know:
You deserve someone who makes dating feel like peace, not emotional turmoil.
Someone who doesn’t make you doubt yourself.
Someone who doesn’t reduce you to a “what are we?” text that never gets answered.
So yes, dating apps may be my third layer of hell—and honestly? That’s okay.
And no, redownloading won’t suddenly rewrite the algorithm (or him).
Sometimes, logging off is the most romantic thing you can do for yourself.
-Love G xoxo
(I’d love to hear your dating app horror stories below)