Things have officially gotten out of hand.

I’ve written here about my experiences with dating apps. I’ve written about my most recent attempt at a relationship. And up until now, I’ve been very careful about how I’ve told those stories. Careful with people’s feelings. Careful not to sound angry. Careful to soften things.

I’m tired of doing that.

I have no idea who reads this blog, and frankly, I don’t care. So if you want the tea, here it is.

If you haven’t read the other two posts, go do that first. I’ll wait.

Caught up?

Okay. Here’s what I left out.

Kenny, the person I most recently attempted a relationship with, seemed pretty normal at first. Better than normal, honestly. Respectful. Available. Not immediately waving a bouquet of red flags in my face.

We had been Snapchat friends for about two or two and a half months, maintaining an extremely wholesome little Snapstreak without actually having much of a conversation. Eventually he asked me on a date. I sort of sidestepped the question the first time. A couple weeks later, he asked again.

We still barely knew anything about each other. I agreed anyway. We went to a little local restaurant. The date was fine. Not bad. Not amazing. Just… fine.

Because I have social anxiety and the restaurant was getting busy, I invited him back to my house so we could keep talking somewhere quieter. One of my adult kids was home, I felt perfectly safe, and I figured maybe a calmer environment would help. It didn’t magically create chemistry. The conversation was still awkward. There were a lot of silences. I didn’t feel a spark. A couple hours later he went home after a hug goodbye.

Over the next week, we talked briefly about the date. He thought it had gone really well. And because apparently I sometimes need to argue with my own instincts before trusting them, I started wondering whether I had judged things too quickly. So the following weekend, I went to his house.

We sat on the couch and watched a movie, and something did feel different there. I felt comfortable. Relaxed. My nervous system wasn’t screaming at me. I didn’t feel anxious or hyperaware of everything I was saying and doing. And I mistook that comfort for something deeper. I spent the night.

From there, everything accelerated.

For the next few weeks, I usually visited him on weekends when Felix was with his dad. Kenny would normally come see me once during the week. He met Felix and Felix’s dad. He met all three of my adult kids and my mom. I met his mom and some of his siblings. I even went to a family gathering.

We talked about the future. We talked about living together. We actually started making plans for it. Yes. It moved absurdly fast. Emotions were high, everything felt new, and I got swept up in it.

And then one day it was like somebody flipped the damn lights on. I looked around at the situation I was creating and thought: What the hell am I doing? My life is already full.

I take care of Felix. I’m involved in the lives of my adult kids. I help my mom. I help friends when they need me. I have my own home, my own interests, my own responsibilities, my own plans, and finally — FINALLY — some freedom. I just clawed my way through a long separation and divorce. For the first time in years, I can make decisions without consulting a partner. I don’t have to negotiate where I go, what I do, how I spend my time, or what I want my future to look like.

I recently had my hip replaced, and after years of physical limitations, I’m getting some of my mobility back. I want to go places. I want road trips. I want adventures. I want to actually use this body I fought so hard to get functional again. Felix’s dad and I have a routine that works. My life is not empty. It does not have a boyfriend-shaped hole desperately waiting to be filled.

And that realization changed everything.

Kenny has a disability that significantly limits what he can physically do. That is not his fault. I want to make that extremely clear, because disability itself was never some moral failing or reason he was unworthy of love. But I’m also done pretending practical realities don’t matter just because acknowledging them might make somebody uncomfortable. His limitations affect walking, going places, maintaining his home, and managing parts of his daily life and health.

He repeatedly said he didn’t want to be a burden. I believe him. But intention does not change reality.

Eventually, I would have become another caretaker. Not because he demanded it. Not because he was malicious. But because that is what I do when I love somebody. I help. I step in. I carry things. I fix things. I make life easier. And I know myself well enough now to understand exactly where that road would have led. I would have slowly started sacrificing pieces of the independence I’ve spent the last several years fighting to regain.

And no, I’m not doing that. If somebody thinks that makes me selfish, they are welcome to think it. I have spent enough of my life setting myself on fire to keep other people comfortable. I’m fresh out of matches.

And frankly, the disability wasn’t even the biggest problem. We simply weren’t compatible. Our conversations rarely flowed naturally. There were long, awkward silences. I felt like I had to mask more than I normally do. We didn’t share enough interests to fill in the gaps.

He talked about his past constantly. His previous relationships. His exes. The life he had wanted. The life he thought he should have had. Meanwhile, we barely had meaningful conversations about who either of us actually are right now. That bothered me more and more. Because eventually I started feeling less like a woman he had specifically chosen and more like an available person being auditioned for a role that had already been written:

Girlfriend. Partner. Future wife. Companion. Insert compatible female here. I genuinely began to feel like a placeholder for the life he wanted. I didn’t feel deeply seen, because I don’t think he was actually taking the time to learn who I was.

He wanted love. He wanted companionship. He wanted someone beside him. And I happened to answer the dating profile and keep showing up. Those are not the same thing as loving me.

Add some very significant sexual and intimacy incompatibilities on top of everything else, and eventually I had to admit the obvious: I was deeply dissatisfied with where this relationship was headed.

So I ended it.

I told him I wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment. I told him I had worked incredibly hard to get where I am and I wasn’t willing to lose myself again.

Everything I wrote publicly afterward was true. It was also heavily sanitized. I was trying to be kind. I knew he was hurt. He blamed himself. He kept asking what he had done wrong. And I kept trying to reassure him.

But here’s the much simpler truth I probably should have said from the beginning: We were wrong for each other. Period. Not every breakup requires a villain. Sometimes two people are simply incompatible, and forcing it would make both of them miserable.

After I ended things, I made another mistake. I kept trying to manage his emotions. I offered friendship. I answered questions. I reassured him. I tried to make sure he understood that he wasn’t worthless just because our relationship didn’t work. Which, in hindsight, was exactly the kind of emotional labor I was trying to stop doing in the first place.

And then came the sad videos. The poor-me posts. The victim narrative. The AI-generated poetry about being alone forever. Then he made sure I knew his dating profiles were active again. Okay. Good luck. I genuinely wished him well.

Yesterday, he finally sent me a video saying he couldn’t be friends anymore. He said he hoped my kids would be okay — which confused the hell out of me, because he barely knew them and they are, in fact, completely fine. He said I deserved a friend who wasn’t always wanting more. Fair enough. He said he hoped I found what I was looking for. And then added that he hoped someday I discovered that what I was looking for was him.

And that was pretty much where my remaining patience packed its bags and left the building. Because how much clearer could I possibly have been? I AM NOT LOOKING. There is not some mystery man out there I’m desperately searching for. There isn’t a boyfriend vacancy currently accepting applications.

There is one man I originally met through dating apps who I still talk to regularly. There is currently no realistic in-person romantic relationship happening there. He is a very important online friend to me, and I’m perfectly comfortable with that.

Beyond that? I’m single. On purpose. And I actually like my life. I like spending time with my friends. I like taking care of my family. I like making my own plans. I like being able to decide at 10:00 in the morning that I want to go somewhere without coordinating another adult’s needs. I like figuring out who the hell I am when I’m not somebody’s wife or girlfriend. I am not wandering around sadly waiting for the correct man to complete me. I’m not a half-person. I’m not missing a piece. I’m not waiting to be chosen.

So framing our breakup as me continuing some grand search for “what I’m looking for” — with the wistful hope that I eventually realize it was him all along — completely misses the point. I already found what I was looking for. My own damn life.

So after his goodbye video, I said goodbye. And then I blocked him. Not because I hate him. Not because I think he’s some horrible person. Because enough was enough.

Toward the end, the sadness, the posts, the comments and the constant implication that maybe I would eventually reconsider started feeling less like grief I could compassionately witness and more like pressure. Like if he demonstrated enough heartbreak, maybe I would feel guilty enough to come back.

That is not how this works anymore. I ended the relationship for a reason. Actually, I ended it for a whole collection of reasons. They were valid then. They’re valid now. And I do not owe anybody a relationship because they’re devastated that I left. I don’t owe anyone another chance because they’re lonely. I don’t owe anyone companionship because they hoped I would fill that role. And I certainly don’t owe someone access to me indefinitely because breaking contact might hurt their feelings.

This is where I used to cave. This is where I used to feel guilty. This is where I used to start asking myself what I could do to make the other person feel better, even if doing it made me miserable. Not anymore.

So that’s the story, in as much detail as I’m willing to put on the internet.

I hope Kenny finds someone who genuinely fits the life he wants. I mean that. But it isn’t me. It was never going to be me. And I am officially done apologizing for knowing that.

Goodbye, Kenny.