I once dated a man who sent heart emojis after not texting me for five days.
He’d vanish into the ether after an amazing date, only to return with a meme and a “missed you” like nothing had happened. I’d tell myself I was being chill. I’d draft texts and delete them. I’d spiral in a Notes app file titled “Things I’ll Never Say.”
But every time he reappeared — breadcrumb in hand, eyes soft with half-apologies — my nervous system hit play on the same script: Maybe this time he’ll show up for real.
Spoiler: he never did. But I kept showing up for the fantasy. Not because I didn’t know better. But because I knew this pattern. It felt like home.
If dating apps had a scent, it would be Axe body spray and low-stakes dread.
You swipe. You match. You banter. You maybe meet. You maybe sleep together. You maybe talk again. Or maybe they fade like a Snapchat streak — leaving you squinting at your own worth in the blue light of “Seen.”
Somewhere between the algorithms and the aesthetic curation, dating became less about building intimacy and more about managing attachment wounds in real time. It's not just "he’s not texting back." It’s: why do I feel like I’m 12 again, waiting to be picked?
We tell ourselves we’re chill. But inside, we're spiraling like insecure attachment types at a group therapy potluck.
Attachment theory, in case your feed somehow missed it, is the psychological framework that explains how our early bonds with caregivers shape the way we relate to people later — particularly in love.
There are four basic types:
These styles aren’t fixed, but they’re deeply wired — often shaped before we had words for emotions or parents who knew what they were doing.
“We learn early what it takes to get love — or what to do when it doesn’t come reliably,” says Dr. Amir Levine, co-author of Attached. “Those lessons don’t just disappear when we download Tinder.”
Dating apps are catnip for attachment styles. Especially the insecure ones.
They offer infinite choice but minimal consistency. Micro-validations (likes, matches) paired with emotional ambiguity. It’s a system designed to reward short attention spans and punish emotional investment.
If you're anxious, every lull between messages feels like a slow-motion rejection. If you're avoidant, you're perpetually scanning for red flags and reasons to bail. If you’re secure… how? Are you okay? Do you hydrate?
Worse still, modern dating celebrates the behaviors that mimic avoidant tendencies: aloofness, detachment, irony-laced affection. It makes genuine interest feel embarrassing. As if wanting someone is a weakness. As if saying “I like you” means you’ve lost the game.
So we armor up. We get cool. We ghost before we can be ghosted. We pretend we didn’t care. But inside, our inner child is refreshing the chat and wondering why no one’s picking us at recess.
There’s something addictive about repeating your attachment dance. Not because it’s fun. But because it’s familiar.
I’ve dated the same person in different bodies. They were smart. Funny. Emotionally ambiguous. They told me I was “different,” “intense,” “easy to talk to,” but rarely “someone I’m building something with.”
Every time they pulled back, I leaned in. I sent the reassuring texts. I rationalized the distance. I thought my love could earn me closeness.
But what I really wanted wasn’t them. It was resolution. I wanted to rewrite the ending of a story I didn’t choose.
Here’s the annoying thing about attachment theory: it doesn’t fix you. It explains you. It gives you a map. But you still have to do the walking.
The first step is recognizing when you’re acting from the wound instead of the want. Am I texting this person because I like them? Or because I feel like I’m about to be abandoned? Am I pulling away because they’re wrong for me? Or because they’re getting too close?
Sometimes just naming it — “Oh, this is my anxious stuff” — is enough to pause the spiral.
Sometimes it’s not. Sometimes you spiral anyway. But you do it consciously, and that’s… something.
People love to say “date someone secure” like it’s as easy as ordering oat milk at a coffee shop. As if secure people are just out there, loitering in Bumble queues, waiting to soothe your nervous system.
But secure partners often feel boring — at first. Their steadiness can feel flat to someone used to emotional turbulence. We mistake calm for a lack of chemistry, when what we’re really missing is the adrenaline of anxiety.
That’s why the work isn’t just finding someone secure. It’s becoming someone who can tolerate — and eventually crave — stability.
“We need to get better at distinguishing chemistry from compatibility,” says therapist Vienna Pharaon. “One ignites. The other sustains.”
I’m still learning this. Still re-learning, really. Still catching the anxious part of me that wants to decode every ellipsis in a text. Still resisting the urge to chase people who run, just because that chase makes me feel needed.
But now I know this: love shouldn’t feel like surveillance. Or self-abandonment. Or trying to earn what should be freely given.
I don’t want the version of love that only exists when I’m anxious enough to chase it.
I want the version where two nervous systems learn to breathe beside each other — with no performance, no disappearing acts, and no ghost emoji needed.
