It took me a long while after my divorce to start dating again.

I wanted to feel free first, free enough that an innocent comment or one bad apple wouldn’t shove me into a swirling darkness filled with “see this is why I shouldn’t try!”

Because even with a clear-eyed view of the ways men uphold patriarchy and white supremacy… Even with the knowledge that dating can be shit sometimes… I wasn’t dating for men. I was dating for me.

I like sex. I like cuddles. I missed orgasms I didn’t give myself with my trusty vibrator. I wanted someone to lean on, to adventure with. And I’m usually more attracted to men. So men were part of the process, but they weren’t the point.

After nearly a decade, I re-entered the dating world in my 30s, divorced and ready for something new. I had clawed back from the darkness and was diving into this bright, shiny, new experience.

What I found was chaos. Toxic dating advice. A chorus of people saying dating apps were awful, but urging me to try them anyway. So I downloaded Hinge, spent an embarrassingly long time making a profile that felt like me, swiped for twenty minutes, and promptly deleted it.

Ain’t no fucking way.

And don’t even get me started on the manosphere. The podcasts. The listicles aimed at women. The endless advice on how to contort yourself to get a man. None of it felt right.

So much of dating and love involves embarrassment. The shame of a failed marriage. The embarrassment of being lied to and wondering if you were the fool or if everyone else saw it. The shame of getting excited about someone only to watch it fall apart.

For me it was even worse because of the speculation. Dating as a public figure meant people whispered, guessed, filled in the blanks. To this day people make assumptions about what happened in my marriage that have no connection to reality.

It’s inescapable, so I decided to take ownership and be cringe for the sake of my own happiness. I opted to let myself be embarrassed rather than play the games that we’re told to play.

Because we could all die tomorrow. So what’s the point of being afraid?

If I want something, ask for it.

I stopped pretending. I called a crush and said it out loud: “I have a crush. You’re hard to read. What’s up with you?” Terrifying, yes. Potentially humiliating, yes. But also honest. Freeing.

Do it for the plot.

Instead of bracing for the worst, I started saying yes to the potential. That’s how I ended up booking a last-minute trip to Australia with a kind-of boo.

It wasn’t perfect. There were awkward silences, mismatched expectations, moments where I wondered why I’d come. But I also realized that even if someone wasn’t “my person,” they could still help me understand what I want. That trip taught me more about myself than any swiping session ever could.

Be unapologetic.

I let myself be seen, really seen. Snort-laughs. Off-key humming. Bad hair days. Silly dance moves. Because how can anyone hold me in softness if I’m still performing?

After a slew of IRL dating experiments, a man slid into my DMs and asked me on a date. I didn’t know anything about him. Nothing at all to help me decide if I wanted to go on a date.

So I made a Google Form.

I asked what I wanted to know: What’s been bringing you joy lately? What’s your idea of a good time?

I sent it to him with a disclaimer: “This is hella extra, but if you wanna date me, you should know I’m EXTRA.”

He said, “Bet. Life’s too short to pretend to be nonchalant.”

And his Google Form responses were filled with just the kind of unapologetic, honest, earnest realness I love.

So we went on a first date that lasted six hours, which turned into late-night phone calls and then a trip to Japan and then meeting my mom…

Fuckkkkkk. I didn’t think falling in love was in the cards for 2025.

At one point he made me a graphic for the multi-stop birthday celebration he planned for me. A fucking beautiful, colorful, graphic.

I knew then it was over. Lover girl era unlocked.

It’s terrifying. Falling in love has cracked me open in ways that sent me running back to my journal, facing scars and fears I thought I’d buried.

But it also feels like safety. Like softness. Like being loved the way Black women deserve to be loved. The way I deserve to be loved, despite all the shit I carry.

And it wouldn’t be possible if I wasn’t cringe.

What would “choosing cringe” look like in your life, whether in dating, friendships, or something else entirely?

And as a thank you for rocking with me, you can get the Google form and a breakdown of how I created it here <3