Any exposure to the modern dating world quickly teaches us that there is extraordinary chaos at large, and nowhere is this clearer than in the experience of dating app burnout. The stories are legion. Three amazing dates, a promise of a trip to Vienna or Vancouver, lovemaking all afternoon, then sudden disappearance. A month of texting while they travelled around the US, a few wonderful walks in the park, then a peculiar excuse about a knee operation, followed by silence. A fantastic two weeks, then at dawn, contact from a stranger whispering that the lover is in fact a serial cheat, with screenshots to prove it. A delightful spring or autumn, and then an anguished speech about needing time, not being sure, still having feelings for an ex, or wondering about the nature of existence (aka the metaphysical exit). And so on and so forth.
One might wish to blame something inherent in human nature. Or a species of bad luck. But the problem is more structural and more comprehensible.
Modern dating operates like a marketplace - one that runs on infinite choice and vanishing accountability. Apps promise us efficiency, connection, and chemistry on demand. But what they really deliver is an illusion of abundance. Every swipe reinforces the idea that there might always be someone slightly better: more attractive, more available, more aligned with our idealized version of love. In this world, people become options rather than individuals. The moment reality intrudes - an awkward silence, a difference in opinion, a moment of vulnerability - it’s easier to disappear than to stay.
The result is emotional fatigue. We start to approach dating like managing an inbox - sorting, replying, deleting - rather than engaging in a process of genuine discovery. The emotional labor once shared between two people has now been outsourced to algorithms and notifications. We curate our profiles to be desirable, not authentic, and in doing so, lose touch with what we actually need.
What makes this mess particularly cruel is that most participants are sincere at the start. They want love, connection, meaning. Yet they’re drawn into a system designed to undermine those very things - an attention economy that thrives on short-term engagement, not long-term intimacy.
Perhaps the only way out of the chaos is to slow down. To resist the gamification of romance and to reintroduce patience into courtship. Love, after all, has never been efficient. It’s messy, uncertain, and beautifully inconvenient - and maybe that’s exactly how it should be.
