How I used dating apps to help heal my baggage & regulate my nervous system
Dating apps can create trauma ... but they can also heal it.
Never, ever, in my wildest dreams did I think I’d sit down to write a post about how dating apps actually helped heal me.
I’d been staunchly anti-dating apps—and honestly, staunchly anti-dating, period—until my mid-twenties, when I very reluctantly decided to start experimenting with Match.com, and it took me 6 years beyond that to open myself up to the possibility of apps like Hinge and Bumble.
I loathed the idea of online dating. I was critical, judgmental, and highly skeptical of their efficacy, and the quality of single men I might find online.
But beneath the scalding resentment—as is often the case, if you’re willing to dig deeper—was fear. Terror, if we’re being completely truthful.
I was terrified of online dating, in a way that defied logic. What seemed like no big deal to most people was something that left me either completely paralyzed with fear or boiling over with rage.
What I didn’t understand at the time was that the intensity of my feelings about online dating were a clear indication that my nervous system was highly dysregulated. There was something about the very idea of being on a dating site or app that was stirring up much deeper, older trauma.
What ended up happening was, in hindsight, fascinating. Even though I couldn’t have explained clearly what I was doing at the time, I intuitively guided myself through a process of exposure therapy—I calmed my nervous system, built up my resilience, and healed trauma by interacting with dating apps (and the men on them) bit by bit, layer by layer.
And of course, the ultimate end result was that I met my soon-to-be husband and started a family—proof that the work paid off in a HUGE way.
So, for the first time I’m sitting down to reflect on and spell out how, exactly, I took myself from completely shut down and frozen with fear to (mostly) comfortable and at ease with online dating and, quite honestly, the entire concept of dating period.
If you’ve listened to or read Forever Alone, you’ll have some idea of my backstory when it comes to boys, men, love, heartbreak, and trauma. You’ll also know why I don’t think dating apps are all bad, and my advice for using them in a conscious way.
Suffice it to say, one of my earliest and most persistent beliefs was that what I want doesn’t want me back. After getting my heart broken by someone I was incredibly attracted to and head over heels in love with, I came to believe (unconsciously, at the time) that I had set my sights too high. I wasn’t a match to the kind of guys I found attractive, so I needed to be more reasonable and date people I generally liked, but wasn’t particularly attracted to.
Between the ages of 18 and 24 I had two long-term relationships with boys (I hesitate to call them men, because I wasn’t exactly a grown woman, either) who I wasn’t physically attracted to.
I summed it up pretty well in Chapter 7: Part 2 of Forever Alone when I said:
All the times I’d frozen with guys, and why something as seemingly innocuous as a dating app had me freaking the fuck out—it was a trauma response. If you’re in a physical encounter with someone and you say, ‘Stop, I don’t want to do this,’ and he ignores you, that’s assault. But what happens when you’re the one saying stop and the one forcing yourself to continue? It’s not assault, but it is traumatic.
I heaped trauma on myself by forcing myself to be physically and emotionally intimate with people I wasn’t attracted to and didn’t actually want to be in a relationship with.
My deep, paralyzing fear of online dating (and again, really any kind of dating) was a protection mechanism. If I didn’t expose myself to the possibility of a relationship, I couldn’t betray myself or cause further trauma. I didn’t trust myself not to end up in yet another relationship that my body and heart recoiled from.
Of course, the problem with refusing to expose myself to the possibility of a relationship is that I still had a profound desire for partnership and family. For a long time, I hoped I could somehow avoid dating and still end up getting what I wanted.
Maybe a man would just show up on my doorstep, or approach me while I was walking my dog. And not just any man—a man so clearly attractive, so clearly right for me, that I would do zero second-guessing. I’d just KNOW it was him, and we could live happily ever after. In other words, I wanted a man to bypass all of my fears and trauma and rescue me from my paralysis.
I’m glad that didn’t happen, because it wouldn’t have served me. I needed to go through the grueling, but ultimately rewarding, process of healing.
The reason healing can feel so rough is because it’s just not possible to heal everything all at once. It requires a lot of time and energy. It’s often not linear. All told, it took me at least 8 years of on-and-off exposure to dating to heal enough to be ready to meet my life partner—and then a whole new level of intense healing began (but that’s a post for another day).
The window of tolerance
I began my dating journey in 2015, when I created a profile on Match.com. What I didn’t know at the time was that I was starting out with a minuscule window of tolerance—which is the range of emotional and physiological stressors and challenges a person can manage before becoming overwhelmed.
When it came to dating, there was hardly anything I could handle before I exceeded my window of tolerance.
The smallest things caused me to be alternatively frozen, shut down, anxious, nervous, angry, judgmental, or on the defensive. If my tolerance was a literal window, it was cracked a millimeter or two—technically air could get in, but it was barely perceptible. Practically speaking, it was shut.
My “About Me” section on Match was nearly 2,000 words. At the time, I thought I was doing myself a service by explaining in as painstaking detail as possible exactly who I was, what I valued, and what I was looking for. Now, I see a young woman who wanted to make it as hard as possible for the wrong man to engage with her—who felt safest hidden behind thickets of words, hoping that only the perfect man for her would have the patience to cut through all of them.
Of course, naive as I was, I didn’t count on the fact that most men would just message me without ever bothering to read my manifesto, so I still received an alarming amount of messages. I was so overwhelmed and anxious I deleted most of them without ever reading them.
When I mustered the courage to read a few, I felt physically sick—heart racing, clammy, nauseous, close to bursting into tears. I never replied to any of them.
Eventually, I tried another strategy. I asked my best friend, Kristen, to manage my profile for me. I started referring to her as “my online dating secretary.”
I thought this was a smart move, because Kristen wouldn’t be triggered by any of the messages I was receiving. And she knew enough about what I was looking for in a man to vet the ones who might meet my expectations and weed out the one who wouldn’t.
But her stint as my dating admin ended after she excitedly told me I’d gotten a message from a guy she found intriguing. I got my hopes up, only for her to turn the laptop around and show me someone who I didn’t find physically attractive, and who was drinking in most of his photos—something I also didn’t find attractive.
As sensitive and jumpy as I was about dating back then, it’s no wonder I freaked out on her … which is the polite way of saying it. The ugly truth is that I threw a tantrum. I angrily accused her of not knowing anything about me, and said I clearly couldn’t trust her with this job, and promptly fired her and got off of Match, entirely.
It wasn’t mature, and I’ve since apologized to her for it. But the fact that I threw a tantrum isn’t surprising. Trauma, be it major or more minor, often causes us to stay developmentally stilted in whatever area the trauma occurred. When an adult throws a tantrum, it’s for the exact same reason a child does—because they can’t regulate their emotions.
I’d taken the first steps in exposing myself to dating and men. Over those initial years, I might have widened my window by a centimeter or two … but it was clearly a long way from being properly open.
Cracking open more
Between 2015 and 2019 I was on and off Match.com three times. I tried managing it myself at first, then I let Kristen try her hand at it, and the last time around I had what I thought was an inspired idea to join the UK version (prompted by plenty of signs leading me in that direction). By the time of the UK stint I might’ve been more willing to actually reply to a message, but no one interesting ever popped up.
I also had some real-life exposure therapy during that time, like:
In 2016, when a hot guy literally showed up on my doorstep. He owned a roofing company and was there to replace the roof on my rented townhome. I boldly handed him my phone number and proceeded to lock myself in the bathroom the rest of the night, where I was certain I was going to be sick. I texted back and forth with him for 24 hours before learning he wasn’t interested in a girlfriend, and wished him well.
In 2017, when my friend Stacy chased a man down in a restaurant on my behalf to tell him he’d caught my eye. She gave him my phone number, and I waited anxiously for hours for him to text me, but he never did.
In 2019, when another friend asked if she could set me up on a blind date with her brother-in-law. I agonized over it for a week, furiously overanalyzing every pro and con, before eventually agreeing—not to a date, just to her passing along my number to him. He never texted me, either.
All of these sound mildly pathetic, don’t they? I couldn’t even give a man my phone number without feeling physically ill or without driving myself into an anxious frenzy. But that’s how deeply, viscerally terrified I was of repeating my mistakes and hurting myself all over again.
Still, I was (ever-so-slowly, at a sloth’s pace) making headway. What started out as a barely perceptible open window had evolved into a noticeably cracked one—not a very big gap, but one that allowed actual air to flow in and out.
Whereas before I couldn’t even look at a message on Match, now I was at least able to hand a man my phone number and live through the agony of him maybe—or maybe not—texting me. It wasn’t much, but it was progress.
Hanging my head out of the window
In January of 2021 I decided to download Hinge, my very first true dating app experience after only ever being on Match.com.
I’d grown tired of wondering if my refusal to try dating apps was the thing blocking me from the love I desired. If I tried it then at least I could find out, one way or the other.
As usual, my first day on Hinge prompted a bunch of likes and messages. My heart raced as I scrolled through them, but I did look at them this time. And I discovered that it’s not so hard to dismiss men that are clear no’s—because most of them are painfully, obviously no’s for one reason or another.
My next layer of exposure therapy on Hinge came in the form of a very nice, decently attractive guy who sent me a virtual rose. My panic heightened and my breathing became shallow as I contemplated what, if anything, to do. I didn’t feel intrigued, but I second-guessed whether I was “allowed” to dismiss him. I had to take a walk around the lake in my neighborhood and call a friend in order to calm down.
Eventually, my friend helped me realize that it was OK to not reply. I was allowed to only want to have conversations with men I was genuinely intrigued by.
The difference here was that when I was on Match, I refused to talk to anyone who I wasn’t certain was the guy for me—hence why I never talked to a single man. On Hinge, I’d healed enough to understand that I couldn’t ever be certain of that at first glance, and I was willing (terrified, but willing) to interact with men I wasn’t sure about. But, it was totally OK to want to feel intrigued before I replied to a message. I didn’t have to force myself to talk to guys I wasn’t interested in, in an attempt to prove I’d become more open-minded.
I was on Hinge for nearly 6 months before I matched with someone I was sincerely interested in. In fact, my interest and excitement was so piqued that I consented to expose myself to something I hadn’t done in over a decade—an actual, in-person, first date.
The in-depth version of that story is featured in Chapter 7: Part 3 of Forever Alone. What I’ll share here is that, on the morning of the first date I’d been on since my early twenties, I was so anxious that I woke up at 6am and couldn’t go back to sleep, even though the date wasn’t until after 10am. I was ready to go a full 2 hours early, and had to spend the next couple hours pacing my condo, leaving voice notes for friends, and reapplying deodorant because I kept sweating it off.
The overwhelming fear that kept passing over me in waves as I drove to brunch was, “I like him a lot, but what if I don’t find him attractive in person?”
Any normal, emotionally regulated person about to go on a date might justifiably respond to that with, “…so what?” Because hey, sometimes you go on a date with someone you thought was attractive, but who doesn’t do it for you in person. It happens. No big deal.
But I hadn’t arrived at “normal” yet. I’d gotten to the point where I was able—shaking and jittery, but still able—to go on a date. My window of tolerance had widened to the point where I could poke my head out of it and peer around. A huge improvement from the girl who, 6 years earlier, was too paralyzed by fear to even open a single message.
Letting the curtains billow in the breeze
Fans of Forever Alone know that, while I was thrilled to discover that I did, in fact, find my date attractive in person, our connection did not progress into a real relationship. I was heartbroken for a time, which I probably shouldn’t have been given we only dated for a couple weeks.
Frankly, I was too emotionally invested in him—I really wanted him to be The One because of how much vulnerability and courage I’d had to muster up to agree to meet him in the first place. Building myself up to undertake that challenge meant I simultaneously had built him up in my mind—this was someone who was worth getting over my fears for. But I think the intensity of my feelings, period, became mixed up and potentially confused with my feelings for him. It’s easy to mistake anxiety for excitement and trauma bonding for love at first sight.
I deleted Hinge after that and took a solid 8 months off of dating, entirely, until I decided to give Bumble a try in the spring of 2022. Here’s a screen recording of a slice of my first Bumble profile:
What happened next will seem wild, when compared with where I started, but I think is actually normal when it comes to growth of any kind—it seems slow and plodding at first, but as momentum builds the rate of growth becomes exponential.
Here’s a breakdown of what happened in the year-ish that I was on (but not consistently! I took breaks from time to time) Bumble:
I matched with lots of men, some I’m sure I’ve completely forgotten. I was willing to chat with guys I wasn’t totally sure of, because I was less afraid of “getting it wrong.”
I had phone and FaceTime dates with a number of guys. The girl who was so afraid of dating that she couldn’t reply to a message had become willing to video chat with strangers.
I went out on dates with at least 10 different guys—from one date in a decade to 10+ in the span of a single year!
I downloaded and used multiple dating apps at once, when previously I could only stand to be on one at a time before I got overwhelmed.
I met a guy who I was really excited about—even more so than the one from the year prior—but who ended up not being ready for a relationship. I suffered heartache, but not nearly so much as the last time. I hadn’t poured quite as much emotional investment into him.
I still got triggered relatively easily in my first few months on Bumble. I’d get too excited about a potential match and take it personally when they never replied. I’d fret about whether I liked a guy enough to say yes to a date. But the more experiences I had, the easier it got to exist in a state of uncertainty without completely losing my mind.
The pinnacle of my transformation was truly ABSURD.
On a Friday evening I ended up matching with two different men on Bumble, which I found funny because it had been weeks since I’d matched with anyone. Go figure. They both ended up asking me out the next day—the first wanted to FaceTime in the morning, the second asked if I wanted to get coffee in the afternoon.
I thought, “I’ve come this far … fuck it!” So I said yes to both of them.
And then, at the end of FaceTiming with the first guy, he asked if I was free to get dinner that night. The FaceTime had been good, so I said yes.
Three dates, two men, one day.
I laughed as I drove to and from both the afternoon and evening dates, feeling very little anxiety about either of them. The me of a few years ago could never have imagined this version of me. If I could tolerate this, then I’d truly performed alchemy. The window had been thrown wide open and a pleasant breeze was billowing through the curtains.
This is why I get peeved sometimes
Each match, each conversation, each phone date, each IRL date in that final year of my dating journey helped strip away another layer of fear and anxiety. I could do this. I could do this and survive. I could do this and actually thrive. I wasn’t going to end up in another traumatic relationship. I could finally trust myself.
This is why I often get annoyed when people—self-proclaimed influencers or just super opinionated people on social media—loudly denounce dating apps, or even the very act of dating, period.
I understand why it’s tempting to write it off. And I think if dating or being on a dating app is negatively influencing your mental health, then you don’t need to do it.
But dating, and being on dating apps, is what helped me heal my mental (and physical) health.
You can’t think or talk your way into rewiring your nervous system. The only way I was able to slowly increase my window of tolerance was by steady, increasing, hands-on exposure to the thing that terrified me.
The more exposure I had, the less power my fear held over me. I became calmer, happier, and more resilient. I took pride in how hard I’d worked to overcome my debilitating anxiety. I learned what I was capable of.
By the time I matched with a cute guy on Bumble who worked in sales by day and was a volunteer firefighter and amateur potter in his off hours, I was able to show up fully as myself—no hiding, no defensiveness, no (well, not much) overanalyzing. And because I was so practiced at uncertainty, it was OK that I didn’t immediately know if he was The One. I was able to sit back and observe how he showed up, and what I saw surprised and delighted me, over and over again.
My journey since then hasn’t been easy, either. As it turns out, being in a relationship after SO long spent single is a whole new kind of exposure therapy. And as I said earlier, that’s a post for another day.
But, as much as it supremely sucked to pry open that window of tolerance, I’m so grateful I did. I lost so much fear, anxiety, and trauma that had been living in my body for most of my life, and I gained a level of ease, freedom, and self-trust I wouldn’t have thought possible. And, most importantly, I made it possible for myself to actually receive and experience love—I gained a spouse and baby boy, which is worth every ounce of difficulty I had to work through along the way.
Like I said at the beginning of this mega-long post, healing isn’t linear and it isn’t quick. But it’s my fervent hope that sharing my journey might help shave some time and heartache off of yours.
Rachel, we’re so alike, at least when it comes to dating! I’m thinking of going back on an app or two…but I always wonder if I should even attempt dating anyone if I’m not 100% sure I want to live here forever, or if my creative work will eventually require me to travel or spend a lot of time alone (writing and performing.) But then I wonder, is that my anxiety talking? I’ve always been way too judgmental of people who aren’t my 400 level English/theater/music major classmates. And really, I know I’m afraid because I do fall hard and fast, on the rare occasion that it happens, then I hurt so badly for years when they leave. So I know I have to overcome that. But realistically, I don’t want to waste time at this age dating someone who isn’t right (and I cannot tolerate any more dull conversations. I’m losing my ability to be polite when I’m upset.) And you know what else? If I were to write a truly honest dating profile, I don’t think I’d get anyone within a 500 mile radius interested in me. Just the thought of it makes me anxious. I can audition for a show, not get cast, and it’s fine because that just the nature of that beast….but personal rejection is a whole different issue.
But I do really want to steal your About Me from Hinge. ☺️ And I’m so happy for you!
So it took me days to be able to respond to this, since I was triggered by this and it took me a while to realize that the triggering was a good thing. Per normal Rachel, I related to so much of this that I was almost in tears by reading this. But I think that you sharing your story, helped me to realize that I have have grown when it comes to dating apps, and there is still room for more growth.
I can have conversations, and while I may role my eyes at 80% of them still, that is lower than the 95% it was. I still am working on the idea of my standards being too high, since that is what I have been told. But I have started to realize that I'm ok with that because I have a baseline to work with and if you can't meet most of that baseline, it isn't going to work. The one thing that I will admit gets me down all the time is people just not responding. That is when I get the most down since I don't know if its me or you swiped by mistake and didn't think I would send you a message. Thank you for sharing your journey Rachel.