Latest / The Dating Files: Dating, Breakups, Love & Relationships / Why You’re Always the One Who Has to Start It | The Dating Files
Transcript
- You know that specific kind of tired that settles in your bones after you’ve sent the third text, planned the third date, and asked the third question? It’s not just fatigue; it’s the quiet erosion of your own desire. Let’s look at the evidence. Not the cold, hard data of who texted first, but the emotional weight of why it matters so much when you do. We live in a culture that romanticizes the chase, especially for women. We are taught that being pursued is a form of validation, proof that we are wanted, proof that we are worthy. So when you find yourself holding the phone, staring at the screen, waiting for a notification that never comes, it doesn’t just feel like loneliness. It feels like rejection. It feels like you are shouting into a void and getting nothing back but an echo of your own effort. I want you to pause right there. Take a breath. I know how heavy that silence can be. I remember sitting on my kitchen floor years ago, clutching a mug of tea that had gone cold twenty minutes prior, wondering if I was too much or not enough. The truth is usually far more mundane and far more painful: you are carrying the entire architecture of this connection on your shoulders. And eventually, structures built by one person collapse. It’s physics, really. But it doesn’t make the ache any less real. When you are the only one initiating, you aren’t just doing the planning; you are doing the emotional labor of keeping the relationship alive. And that is an exhausting job with no title, no pay, and no guarantee of survival. Here is where we need to get blunt, because I care about you too much to let you stay in the fog of self-doubt. You might be telling yourself that he is just busy. Or shy. Or traditional. Maybe you believe that if you love him enough, his passion will ignite naturally. But let’s look at the evidence again. Passion is not a switch that flips because you want it to. Interest is demonstrated through action, not potential. When someone wants to be in your life, they make space for it. They pick up the phone. They suggest the restaurant. They ask how your day was. It is easy to paint the other person as lazy, as if they are incapable of effort. But often, it is simpler than that. It is about priority. In the economy of attention, you are spending all your currency while they are saving theirs. This isn’t about playing games. This is about reading the room. If you are always the one extending the olive branch, you are teaching them that they don’t have to bring anything to the table. You are enabling a dynamic where their comfort is maintained at the cost of your dignity. And I know that sounds harsh. I know it stings. But staying in a dynamic where you are the sole architect of intimacy is a slow leak in your soul. You deserve a partner who meets you halfway, not someone who watches you build a bridge and then wonders why they haven’t crossed it yet. Your nervous system knows. It has been tracking these patterns long before your conscious mind caught up. Do you notice what happens to your body when you send that text? Does your chest tighten? Does your stomach drop? That is not excitement. That is anxiety. That is your body signaling that you are in a state of uncertainty, waiting for approval. Over time, this chronic state of hyper-vigilance wears you down. It keeps you in a low-grade fight-or-flight mode, even when you are sitting still. I want you to think about what it costs you to keep initiating. Every time you reach out without a response, you are rehearsing rejection. You are training your brain to expect disappointment. And slowly, subtly, you start to pull away from your own desires because you are so busy managing the expectations of someone else. You stop wanting to go to that cool new jazz bar because you’re afraid he won’t like it. You stop suggesting the movie because you don’t want to seem demanding. You shrink. You contort yourself into smaller and smaller shapes to fit into the space he is willing to occupy. And that is not love. That is performance. Love should feel like coming home, not like auditioning for a role you didn’t write. So, what do we do? We don’t just accept this as our lot in life. We treat it like a case file. We look at the variables. One powerful variable is stopping. Now, I know what you’re thinking. 'If I stop, he’ll leave.' And maybe he will. But that is not a failure; that is data. That is information. If the only thing keeping a connection alive is your relentless effort, then the connection was already dead. You were just performing CPR on a body that had given up. Try this experiment. For one week, do not initiate. Do not send the first text. Do not plan the date. Do not ask the question. Just exist. Let the silence sit between you. Watch what happens. Notice how your anxiety rises, and then, hopefully, begins to fall. Notice whether he steps into the gap you’ve created. This is not a punishment for him. It is an act of reclamation for you. You are returning the ball to his court. You are saying, 'I am here, but I am not chasing.' It is messy, it’s human, and it is terrifying. But it is also the only way to find out if there is actually a game worth playing. If he doesn’t step up, you have your answer. And answers, even painful ones, are better than endless guessing. Setting this boundary is not about controlling him. It is about respecting yourself. It is about declaring that your time, your energy, and your emotional labor are valuable resources. You are not a public utility. You are not there to be accessed whenever convenient. When you stop initiating, you are setting a standard. You are saying that mutual effort is the baseline, not the exception. This is radical honesty in communication. You are communicating through action, which is often louder than words. I want to remind you of something we discussed briefly in a past episode about infertility and the uncertainty of the future. There, we talked about how hard it is to hold on when the outcome is unclear. Here, the outcome is equally unclear, but the lesson is similar. You cannot control the other person. You can only control your participation. If you participate fully while they withdraw, you are complicit in your own neglect. By pulling back, you are protecting your heart. You are giving yourself permission to grieve the loss of a fantasy. Because let’s be clear: you are grieving the idea of him, the idea of us, the idea of how easy it should be. And that grief is valid. But it is not a signal to run faster. It is a signal to stop and check your compass. As you practice this non-initiation, watch what happens to your own desire. Often, when we are constantly reaching out, we lose touch with what we actually want. We become focused on getting a response rather than enjoying the interaction. When you step back, you create space for your own wants to emerge. Do you miss him? Or do you miss the feeling of being chosen? Do you miss him? Or do you miss the routine? These are hard questions. But they are necessary. You need to distinguish between longing for a person and longing for connection. Connection can come from many places. Friends, family, community, creative pursuits. You do not need one specific person to validate your existence. When you reclaim your energy, you become more attractive, not because you are playing hard to get, but because you are whole. You are interesting. You are engaged with your own life. And that is magnetic. People are drawn to those who have their own gravity. So focus on building your own orbit. Write the book. Take the class. Go to the concert alone. Fill your cup so that you are not looking for someone else to pour into it. When you are full, you can offer love freely, not desperately. And that changes everything. It shifts the dynamic from need to choice. And choice is the foundation of true intimacy. Take good care of yourself. Be gentle with your heart. And remember, you are never chasing anyone. You are only ever meeting those who are ready to meet you. Until next time, I’m rooting for you. Always.