Exit the Game
On 2 years of deleting dating apps and the neuroscience behind adaptability.
2 years and 1 day ago, I published this piece for Vox on “How Swiping Ruined Online Dating,” and subsequently deleted all of the dating apps I had frequented for just under 7 years. It was the first time that as a journalist, I had written about my personal life; I usually covered wonkier topics like cleaning up oil spills, the film industry and the politics of job creation, real estate development’s connection to indie music, and spent much of the rest of my time building products I hoped would improve the quality of our media.
Over the next two years since the publishing of that piece, I would write two emails (one asking 700 people to set me up, and one crunching the numbers and reflecting on the experience), and one more piece exploring love in America in the age of online dating and the #metoo movement. That piece resonated with other journalists, and I was featured in a thoughtful interview here, and on an artful podcast, The Gender Knot. I had hit a chord. Yet, the process didn’t feel complete. I continued to think more about why I had done what I had done, and what the implications were, societally speaking.
The following piece explores how I came to the notion that online dating could be ultimately changing our adaptability, and why that matters.
I had been online dating (because of an assignment for work in fact) since 2009 at the age of 23, so I was an early adopter. As such, I had seen the ecosystem and products change drastically (think desktop → mobile, super earnest, thoughtful profiles → limited character counts and more of an emphasis on photos). Nancy Jo Sales in 2015 penned a viral Vanity Fair piece on “Tinder and The Dawn of the Dating Apocalypse” (which recently spun into an HBO documentary, Swiped, released 2018). The founder of Hinge, in re-launching their service in September 2016 to be more “relationship-oriented,” had his team publish a piece on this very platform on “[building] a refuge from swipe culture for those looking to escape the dating apocalypse and find something real.”
At the same time, studies were coming out about loneliness in America, further cementing that just because it was easier and more accessible to meet other people, didn’t mean that we were feeling happier or more whole. Yet, dear friends of mine had met their now husbands and wives on apps. That left me in a thoughtful conundrum. I hoped that the “new Hinge” would create the kind of space that would help solve for loneliness, and also help “serious” daters find each other more effectively — tackling that digital dating apocalypse Sales articulated.
But I had in fact been a beta tester on this redesign over several months (not understanding that they would kill their original product and relaunch as an “entirely” different experience). And I didn’t think that the redesign changed much at all. Swiping was replaced with liking or hearting. There were some beautiful UI changes, and the design felt more vertical as opposed to other dating apps’ more horizontal approach, but ultimately, it encouraged many of the same behaviors. I don’t blame Justin and his team (in fact, I thought it was audacious of him, as audacious as his own love story that made it into The New York Times’ Modern Love column). I had actually met him only a few weeks prior, at a conference at which he and I both spoke. Nice guy.
And maybe, in even launching a campaign and an updated product that led with a “relationships first” strategy, it changed the types of daters on Hinge. To this day, I don’t know. Because the next thing that happened after Hinge relaunched their service and wrote about it, was that I casually posted a short treatise on dating apps, and a call for more mindfulness when using said apps, to my friends on Facebook. It was a Friday. I didn’t think much of it.
The next thing I knew, I received a note from an editor at Vox, asking me to expand my comments into a full-blown Op-Ed. I spent the next week articulating and examining my experiences in dating, and commenting (as an editorial product manager for media companies) on the technical shifts that I believed were driving behavioral shifts, on and offline.
And in that process, I realized how much time over the last 7 years I had spent on apps. Ultimately, It was easier than I had expected to write about them and my experiences, because they had really punctuated my 20s in subtle and not so subtle ways. I knew the high highs they gave me and the low lows. I knew how much time I had spent messaging to avail, and of course, often to no avail. And compartmentalizing skills aside, in drawing a tie between mindfulness practices and online dating (the topic of the piece), the problems and my problems with apps became ever more apparent. I decided there and then that I would publish the piece, and then delete all of my dating apps. It would be the crescendo in the composition of my early dating years.
The Power of Appstinence
The next phrase would involve me leveraging the power of my network vis a vis the “Theory of Weak Social Ties” (Johns Hopkins, 1973), doing something audacious: emailing 700 people and asking to get set up. It was one of the weirdest emails I’ve ever sent, but also unapologetically me. I made a Spotify playlist of dope modern love songs, and made a Pinterest board of the types of men I liked, which I called a “dudeboard.” I tried to be funny but also speak to all the types of people and learners I had emailed. Like a good product manager, I was hacking my dating experience. Like a good journalist, I was experimenting with how framing and narrative could shift the way my community thought about social dynamics.
TLDR: it went well, I went on 6 dates, and the 7th person I met, I dated for 7 months. I met him through friends. And after our break up, I didn’t rejoin apps. I decided that being single and NOT on apps — appstinent — would be AS interesting, and if anything, even more interesting.
In a world where most of my friends had become coupled (probably 66–75% by the time I was 30), it would be very counterculture (punk) of me to NOT be on apps, and to not continue to proactively ask for help in meeting a partner. I was curious what it would be like to just meet people on my own, knowing that fewer people were doing just that anymore. How would others react to learning I was no longer on apps, with no plans to rejoin? And most importantly, now that I was single again, what would I be able to do with the extra time I’d have?
I reflected on this in the follow up email in October 2017:
The amount of time I’ve saved and regained from deleting apps is far more worth the sometimes awkward conversation of describing what I’m looking for and asking to get set up. The books I’ve been able to read! The magazines! The shows! And most importantly, I haven’t had that horrible pit of the stomach feeling I used to get from constantly swiping left on people and feeling like I had made the wrong or too superficial decision. Also gone are the days of feeling like I don’t have good enough photos, that I’m not funny enough over a very small screen, or that I can’t compete with the sea of other people out there with more perfect digital presences.
I felt an increasing power in my regained time and presence of mind. My attention was once again an asset over which I had agency, not something to be so micro-managed. Even it was only an extra half hour or so a day (what I would guess I had spent on apps previously), cumulatively, that added up.
In a world where digital platforms and technology companies (and media companies) are becoming increasingly consolidated, our time and our power are being coopted. I don’t care particularly whether it’s intentional, unintentional, or a blend of the two; I’m not here to traffic in conspiracy theories, and I’m only critical in a way that Midwesterner turned Coastal inhabitant could be (in other words, in a limited way). But, it would be remiss to not notice how much more deep my relationship with myself, with others, with my work, and with the places and spaces I occupy has become not giving these platforms and companies as much of my time and attention.
Not being on dating apps means being on my phone less. No new app or technology has replaced the dating app for me; it wasn’t me being on screen time for screen time’s sake — it was to meet someone. It was to satisfy a desire and a need. And it turns out, when you’re not meeting people on dating apps, you’re forced to meet them IRL. On the street. At your neighborhood coffee shop or bar or yoga studio or crossfit gym. At the dog park. At a work event. At a Sukkot backyard party. At a movie. On a hike. In the water. At a music festival or concert. When traveling, at a restaurant, slyly slipping your number to someone on the customer copy of your receipt. Through taking a chance and going out with a new friend’s friend group on a Monday night. At a conference at an isolated retreat center where there’s nothing else to do but go deep. Or, even when you’re tired and annoyed, in going those extra 8 miles to that 4th of July Party, re-meeting someone from a decade ago, and asking them for their number as you leave, because you never know…
And it’s the ‘you never know’ behavior that I perfected through online dating — before apps. The I don’t know what could happen, so why not try? Before apps, when I mostly frequented OkCupid.com, the messages were earnest. They were often related to a person’s profile. And it was far more uncertain whether a person would respond; there were simply fewer people using online dating, especially in my demographic at the time. So each time I would send a message, which wasn’t that often, it felt like I was saying to myself, “Why not, you never know?” It’s the digital version of Big Dick Energy, especially for a lady before the days of Bumble. And not everyone had it.
But now, with apps, the ‘you never know’ is gone, because it’s SO unbelievably easy to say something to anyone. Don’t tell me that the mutual matching mechanism prevents that; if you’ve seen people swipe before, you’ll know they’re not being that deliberate. It’s a numbers game.
But off of the apps, it’s not the same numbers game anymore. If anything, it’s gotten harder. People are more dependent on their dating apps, and qualitatively speaking, I’m noticing less people approach each other in the real world. Why take a risk on the ‘you never know’ when you can simply retreat to your phone later? Why accidentally talk to someone who isn’t available or isn’t interested, only to be rejected, when you have a location-based dating service persistently available in your pocket? There is a chance that if they are available, you’ll be able to find them on one of the services later, right?
And maybe, just maybe, not taking a risk, and not being embarrassed if the outcome isn’t ideal, does protect your psyche in some way, shape, or form. Maybe your overall confidence remains higher, and your feelings of being safe and loved somehow contribute to your base level of success or happiness.
The Power of Risk Taking
But I doubt that. What we know is that people who take risks increase their adaptability. “Every new experience causes physical changes in the brain, and it’s called neuroplasticity…your brain creates brand new neural pathways as a way to adapt. It’s a proven fact. You become a different version of you. Your brain switches to a “fine tuning” mode, especially when you visit a new place.” And new places don’t include those same dating apps people are frequenting.
In an increasingly uncertain world, what I do know is that we all need to constantly be working on our neuroplasticity. Meditation helps. New experiences help. And I’m guessing that taking the risk and approaching people offline, in real life, might also contribute to creating those new neural pathways that make us more adaptable (and also arguably more empathetic). Empathy, after all, is directly correlated to our mirror neurons, those which “help us understand the actions of others and prime us to imitate what we see.” Though online dating does include risks and novelty — it’s not the same as transformative new experiences, or person to person or group interaction — the things that drive adaptability and empathy.
What if adaptability and empathy powered by our neuroplasticity are today’s superpowers? Learning how to change your mind is trending, with a resurgence in psychedelic drug research taking the healthcare and consciousness worlds by storm. Meditation (and studies on the benefits of meditation) are growing exponentially. When we can’t as effectively influence the “external” system and world we’re living in (especially thanks to a consolidation of power and money and endless bureaucracy compounded with the pressure on our environment), more and more people are learning how to influence their “internal” world. Could becoming more personally adaptable possibly be the first step in becoming more collectively adaptable? And how does empathy play into our ability to cooperate collectively?
A guru and master yogi once said, in today’s age, “the depression and stress on mankind will tear up people who do not have the technical knowledge of self.”
If cultivating technical knowledge of the self is so important, then we’ll need to better understand that which depletes our attention, or at least takes it from the most pressing things and redirects it. Which is not to say that relationships and love aren’t some of the most consequential experiences of our lives; I’m simply questioning the mechanisms by which we’re searching for those experiences, and whether they truly benefit us.
In the latest study on loneliness in America, it’s noted that “Fifty-six percent reported they sometimes or always felt like the people around them “are not necessarily with them.” And 2 in 5 felt like “they lack companionship,” that their “relationships aren’t meaningful” and that they “are isolated from others.” This is astounding. Even though our technology can and sometimes does bring us closer together (which according to the study, decreases our loneliness), our bifurcated attention — thanks to passively scrolling on our technology — is indeed making us lonelier than ever.
What I personally have learned, is that today, dating apps aren’t for me. I’ve met some amazing men (and also people!) over the last few years of not being on them. I’ve grown in these relationships, and even more out of them. And the depth of my ability to connect to myself, be present with those around me, to be clear about what I want, and to be open-hearted to that which may arise has increased so much so that I can’t go back — back to the feelings I had, no matter how high the highs were, of trying to date and subsequently grow and love through the filter of my phone.
As it turns out, I’m too addicted to the neuroplasticity resulting from the adventure of meeting people IRL. And I deeply believe in the notion that now, more than ever, we need to work to understand ourselves, and to optimize for our adaptability and empathy, both individually and collectively. Our future depends on it.
In a world where we’re finding ourselves more filtered and siloed — by our loneliness, by the internet putting us into ideological boxes, by the boxes we choose to check in our lives and on our dating apps, and by the choices we’re making every moment — would we feel more connected, and dare I argue more loved — if we dared to spend a little less time looking for companionship on apps, and more time taking risks and talking to new people (or that same person we commute with everyday) in our version of reality, real life? How would that not only affect our everyday, but also our politics and culture? The way we understand each other, and the way we understand ourselves? What might result if we dared for a little more traditional face time in our lives?
Why not, you never know.
Special thanks to Helen Grossman Lori White (the creator of the term “appstinent”) Hayley Darden Samir Narang and Nora Johnson for fearlessly (and in a timely fashion) letting me know their thoughts on my thoughts.
