Dating in a Swipe-Left World

The universe and I had a deal, or so I thought. I’d do the inner work, you know, the deep, deep shadow work. Looking into the darkness at the things that no one likes to see. Heal the wounds, balance the chakras, burn the sage, forgive the ex(es… even that one), and in return, the universe would deliver someone with soulful eyes, a stable nervous system, a real job and a half-way decent credit score and maybe, just maybe, enough trauma to write a good book about someday.

The first time I opened a dating app, I waited until Venus was no longer retrograde, my moon was in a non-crying sign, and my rising wasn’t being bullied by Saturn. Only then—after lighting a candle, whispering a prayer, and checking that my Wi-Fi and my chakras were both aligned—I dared to tap the icon.

Some might call it overkill. I call it self-preservation. Because when your love life is a sacred mix of tarot spreads, trauma healing, and a plotline that reads like a second-chance romance with the universe, you don’t just swipe recklessly. You consult your guides, cleanse your screen with palo santo, and pray that your future soulmate knows the power of the vibration and frequency of various crystals.

I wasn’t looking for perfection. I just wanted someone whose soul didn’t snore. Someone who’d know what I meant when I said I was “energy sensitive,” who wouldn’t blink twice when I casually mentioned Mercury retrograde or pulled an oracle card before brunch. Someone who understood that when I said I was an empath, I wasn’t being cute—I was explaining why large crowds made me want to lie down for a week.

Instead, I matched with a guy named Chad who opened with, “So… you into rocks or something?”

I’d like to say I answered with grace. I’d like to say that I chuckled, made a witty retort, educated him on the vibrational resonance of rose quartz. I’d like to say that. But the truth is, I could feel my heart sinking faster than the Titanic. I flipped over to my Schumann Resonance app to see what was happening in Tomsk. Crap, it was a brightly infused, white-light, solar flare day. I closed the app, put my phone on the windowsill next to the amethyst, and whispered to the wind, “I give up.”

When you live with your heart wide open, when you cry at full moons and set intentions over tea, dating in this instant gratification, swipe-happy culture can feel like showing up to a speed dating event at a nightclub where everyone’s wearing noise-canceling headphones. You want someone who knows about their Saturn return. They want someone with good lighting and a dog. You want connection. They want convenience. 

Dating while divine isn’t for the faint of heart. It’s not just about looking for love—it’s about staying rooted in your truth while swimming through a sea of shrugging emojis, “u up?” texts, and people who think Mercury retrograde is a new Starbucks drink.

It’s complicated. Beautiful. Lonely. Magical. Honestly, it’s a little ridiculous.

There’s an odd comfort in solitude when you’ve walked through heartbreak with grace and moonlight. You begin to build a home inside yourself. You light candles for your own company. You learn to cook dinner for one without the soundtrack of disappointment. But the heart is tricky. It remembers things you pretend to forget. It stirs late at night when the wind sounds like someone whispering your name.

You tell yourself you’re fine. You are fine. But still, you check your phone, wondering if someone somewhere is thinking of you with the same slow ache.

There are moments that catch you off guard—like when you meet someone who asks your birth chart, and you think, Finally. You talk about past lives and favorite star systems and laugh like you’ve known each other for lifetimes.

Then they disappear. No closure, just silence. A ghost with a charming smile. Your own personal Sam Wheat (oh, c’mon… Sam Wheat? Really? Patrick Swayze’s unforgettable role in Ghost? I digress…). 

So now you’re left doing a cord-cutting ritual by candlelight, wondering if you’re too much. Too intense. Too in tune.

The truth is, this world isn’t designed for soft hearts. It was built for people who keep things casual, who ghost before things get too real, who wear apathy like armor. It rewards the unbothered, the ironic, the ones who can say “lol” when they mean “ouch.”

But you—you believe in something more.

You believe in eye contact that lingers just a second too long, the kind that feels like a confession. You believe in words spoken slowly, like they matter. In conversations that stretch past midnight and unravel something sacred. You believe in hands that know how to hold both joy and grief—without flinching.

You want love that shows up when the dishes are dirty and the silence is awkward. Love that stays when the mood shifts, when the shine wears off, when you’re not at your most photogenic or emotionally polished.

You want love that breathes. That exhales next to you on the couch during the boring parts of the movie. That asks how your day was—and actually listens, even when you talk for too long about the weird energy at the coffee shop.

You want someone who won’t swipe you away like a digital inconvenience. Someone who sees your sensitivity not as a liability, but as a language—one they want to learn.

And sure, maybe the world doesn’t make it easy. Maybe it tells you to toughen up, stop being so open, stop leading with your heart. But you’ve tried that. And you hated it.

So here you are. Still soft. Still hopeful. Still swiping, maybe—but only when the stars align and your spirit doesn’t recoil. Because deep down, you know: the right one won’t be scared of your depth. They’ll be grateful for it. They’ll meet you there, in the quiet, where real love begins. You don’t date for entertainment. You date with intention. 

And that means it’s harder.

It’s lonelier.

But it’s worth it.

Because the right kind of love—the one that doesn’t need convincing—will recognize you without explanation. You’ll know it not by fireworks, but by calm. By the way your body softens. By the way they speak to your spirit before they speak to your skin.

Until then, you’ll keep showing up. Maybe not every day, and maybe not with full optimism, but you’ll show up. You’ll be the one who says, “I don’t want small talk, I want soul talk,” even if it scares them off. You’ll ask hard questions and listen with your whole being. You’ll continue to lead with heart, not ego.

And when it hurts—because it will—you’ll return to your rituals. You’ll write in your journal, light your candles, talk to the sky. You’ll grieve the almost and celebrate the growth. You’ll remember that you’ve never actually been alone, not really. Your ancestors walk with you. Your angels. Your guides. The version of you who still believes in love, even when it doesn’t arrive on schedule.

You’re not behind. You’re not forgotten. You’re just becoming.

Dating while divine isn’t about finding someone to complete you. It’s about learning how to be complete while still wanting someone to share the journey with. It’s about choosing love, even in the silence. Even in the waiting.

So how do you survive this strange little chapter of spiritual dating in a swipe-happy world?

You don’t settle. Not for someone who overlooks your light, or mislabels your depth as drama. You don’t twist yourself into a softer version just to be easier to hold. Screw SEO keywords. You remain expansive. Open. A little wild and wonderfully untamed. You trust your intuition more than empty promises, and your energy more than someone’s carefully curated profile.

This is the path to conscious relationships—the kind built on mutual growth, presence, and emotional fluency. You remind yourself that authentic love doesn’t follow algorithms. It doesn’t always arrive on time, but that doesn’t mean it’s not already on its way. It’s moving toward you, just as you are moving toward it. One true heartbeat at a time.

And if you ever feel like giving up, come back to this truth:

You are not too much.

Modern love isn’t broken, exactly. It’s just… buffering.

So light your candle. Whisper your prayer. And swipe—if you feel like it—with hope, not desperation. With humor, not fear. With the unshakable knowing that even if the apps don’t get you, the universe does.

And it’s already conspiring in your favor.

If you’re in the thick of it—burned out, fed up, or just tired of trying alone—don’t isolate. Share your story. Talk to your people. Leave a comment. Start a conversation. Someone out there is waiting for a heart like yours.

Let’s keep showing up until the stars align.