Better read while listening to “Where’s My Husband?” by RAYE.
Put it on. Sip something strong. Let’s talk about modern love.
Three Days to Go: A Love Letter to 2025
With only three days left on the calendar, 2025 is almost over and the new year is knocking. My dating life this year? Intense, chaotic, and full of highs and lows. And I can’t help but wonder… will 2026 treat me the same?
Looking back, 2025 was nothing if not eventful. I started the year falling in love with a man who ended up being the lesson I didn’t know I needed. I wasn’t ready to admit it at the time, but some lessons come disguised in big blue eyes and big, big promises. After a few months where my self-esteem and self-worth were dragged through the pits of hell, I put myself back out there, hoping to find something that felt a little more like love and a little less like survival.
It took a different kind of self-love to begin prioritising my own needs, to stop letting people make me unhappy just so I wouldn’t lose them. I went on more than 30 dates with men that led absolutely nowhere. Disappointment became routine. Was it their fault? Was it mine? Truthfully, I played my part. But I also learned to respect my own boundaries and to choose myself over mediocre men with unresolved trauma.
As I’ve said before, dating apps have given people the illusion that someone better is always just one swipe away. The problem? No one knows what they actually want anymore. They have lists of demands but no depth to back them up. «Perfect smile, good job, abs, can fly a plane, must hate capitalism but also own property.» And when they find that mythical person, they realise their actual life doesn’t fit that fantasy. So they go back to the apps. Again.
For me, it wasn’t just that I couldn’t find someone to vibe with (although that was harder than expected). It was this:
I couldn’t shrink myself to fit into someone else’s version of life.
Not anymore.
I was dating someone I really liked for a short period of time — or at least, I thought I did. In the beginning, he loved my style. I wear high heels every day — unapologetically. But slowly, his compliments turned into critiques. He started talking to me like I was on Germany’s Next Top Model.
One night, he invited me over for dinner. But before I came, he texted me a list of instructions — like I was his personal doll.
I showed up exactly as myself.
Let’s just say… he wasn’t pleased.
At some point in the evening, he actually said:
“You don’t do yourself a favour. You don’t look as smart as you are.”
This man — a philosophy major, no less, really thought that women who read don’t wear high heels.
Reader, I left with my heels on. And he left me on read.
The following dates? Well, you’ve read them here. Catastrophic. Eventually, I restarted therapy and realised I didn’t need to rush into finding someone. I kept dating until it became exhausting. So, I decided it’s time to stop.
“One last date,” I told myself, as I walked into the bar. I sat down — no sign of him. “Great,” I thought, “another ghosting. At least I’ll enjoy some dirty martinis.”
Then my phone buzzed:
“I can’t see you at the bar.”
I looked around. I was literally the only one there.
“Well, I’m the only person sitting at the bar,” I replied.
Twenty seconds later, a man walked in.
And I whispered to myself, “Please God, let him be stupid or misogynistic — because uh-oh… trouble.”
He wasn’t. He was funny, kind, and drop-dead gorgeous. We hit it off quickly. He ticked all the boxes: charming, reflective, a gentleman. Except for one thing. He was bald. Well… a man can’t have everything, right?
A Familiar StingA Familiar Sting
A few weeks later, I had dinner plans with someone I had agreed to meet months ago. I tried to cancel, but it was too short notice — he was already in town. So I went, fully transparent with my new guy. I explained the situation, even told him where we’d be, so if he happened to see me out, he’d know the context.
Dinner turned into drinks — not because there was chemistry, but because we actually vibed more like old friends. Same scenario: I texted my guy to keep him in the loop. Except… I forgot to mention which bar we were heading to.
And then we walked into my favourite bar.
“Καλησπέρα αγάπη μου!”, I heard.
I turned my head and there he was — sitting with another woman.
My heart sank.
“Here we go again,” I told myself.
I waved back and quietly sat with my polite (and thankfully oblivious) date in the corner. Dirty martinis were ordered, the conversation was lovely. My date was kind, older by about 25 years, and — on paper — everything I thought I was looking for. We talked about our shared dream of moving to Northern Italy to write books and make wine.
Meanwhile, a few tables away, my guy was wrapping up his own date. He walked over, said goodnight, and left.
I told myself not to overthink it. But the truth is… it hurt.
He didn’t owe me anything. But it hurt anyway —
- Because I really liked him.
- Because he’d said he wasn’t dating anyone else.
- And because, there I was, being honest — and he hadn’t given me the same in return.
Not even the decency of transparency. And that’s what stung the most.
Was it betrayal? Maybe not technically.
But emotionally? It felt like it.
The night ended with me being so drunk I lost half my belongings and earned a massive bruise on my knee.
The next morning, I saw a message from him:
“It wasn’t a date, I know how it looked. She’s just a co-worker, the rest had already gone home. (enter personal stuff…) i’m so sorry if I upset you. It won’t happen again.
I don’t know why, but I trusted him.
I told him the truth about how that moment made me feel. Not because of the “date” itself, but because of the dishonesty. The hiding. I wasn’t looking for an apology, but i owe to myself to make my voice heard. No more burrying emotions.
And somehow, he understood that.
I’ve never met a man with so much empathy. He reflected my emotions back to me better than I could articulate them myself. He apologised not just for what he did, but for how it made me feel. He took accountability.
We kept seeing each other. We laughed. We had a connection.
Then one morning, while we were eating breakfast in bed, he turned to me and said:
“I deleted my dating apps. I messaged the girls I was chatting with to let them know I’ve met someone I really like, and I want to give it a real chance. I’m not expecting you to do the same — I just felt it was the right thing to do.”
He didn’t push. He didn’t make it a rule. Just a choice he made for himself.
My apps were gone half an hour later.
I don’t know if he’s “my person.” But I like what we’re building. I like how intense it feels — and how slow we’re taking it. The big feelings are there, yes, but so is the space. The room to breathe, to think, to feel. To grow.
He once told me how safe he feels with me — that when I open up about the things I don’t like, he doesn’t feel judged. He knows I’m not going to hurt him. And honestly, I feel the same. It’s an easy connection, with so much room to grow. And I need that in my life.
I usually don’t talk to a new guy about my past relationship traumas. First of all, because most men use them as a blueprint — they take notes on how to manipulate you better. And second, because I want to raise my standards with the next one, not lower them. So, as far as I’m concerned, all of my exes treated me like a princess.
But with him? I felt safe enough to open up. And let’s just say — for him, it became a blueprint of what not to repeat. That, right there, is the kind of calmness and safety you should feel in a relationship. The kind that doesn’t retraumatise you — it rewrites the story.
Although it’s too early for conclusions, I do feel safe. After a long time of war, peace has found me.
So, what did 2025 teach me?
That rock bottom only points in one direction: up.
That healing isn’t linear — it’s layered. Messy. Sometimes hilarious. Often painful. But always worth it.
That therapy is sacred. That going slowly is powerful. That loneliness can be a kind of strength.
That love isn’t something to beg for — it’s something you build.
And until you find it?
Sip the dirty martinis. Laugh loudly with your friends.
Write about it. Dance in your heels. Be unapologetically you.
And maybe — just maybe — the best part of the story hasn’t been written yet.
So I can’t help but wonder…
Will 2026 finally bring us a better dating experience?
Because sometimes you have to go through a couple of dirty martinis and hard truths before you find something to let your soft self believe again.
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