I went on a date last night, if you can even call it that. It was more like, we met for drinks, had a perfectly fine conversation about our jobs and how insane rent is getting, and then he walked me to my Uber and kinda hugged me goodbye. Not even a kiss. And I’m sitting in the back of the car, scrolling through Instagram, seeing all these women my age with their perfect little families or their vacation pics with some hot guy, and I just feel… nothing. Or maybe it’s not nothing, maybe it’s just this dull ache in my chest that whispers, “See? This is what you get for even wanting it.” Like a punishment for even thinking about a connection that goes past, ‘Hey, how are you?’. Is that weird? Does everyone feel this? Because I swear, sometimes it’s like my mom’s voice is living rent-free in my head, even after all these years and all these miles. Always telling me not to be too much, not to want too much, don’t bring shame on us, mija. And here I am, almost 40, in a city where everyone’s so open and free, and I still feel like I’m constantly looking over my shoulder, afraid someone’s going to catch me wanting something as simple as a second date that actually feels like a date. It’s just… exhausting. This city moves so fast, everyone’s hustling, everyone’s so busy. And I’m busy too, you know? My job is demanding, I’ve got family obligations, gotta send money home, all the usual stuff. But then there’s this other layer, this whole hidden life where I’m trying to figure out if I’m allowed to even feel like a person who deserves affection, who deserves to be desired. And it’s not even about this guy specifically, he was fine, perfectly nice. It’s more about the whole damn dance. The endless swiping, the polite small talk, the feeling that you’re constantly being evaluated, and at the same time, you’re evaluating them. And all of it against the backdrop of this internal monologue that’s just a constant loop of ‘don’t be silly, what do you expect, you’re not built for this.’ And then I get home, kick off my heels, and just stare at my phone, wondering if I should text him, or if that’s too much, too eager. What if he thinks I’m DESPERATE? That’s the worst, isn’t it? To be seen as desperate. Better to be aloof, better to be busy, better to be… nothing. So I just put on some Netflix, scroll through some more, and try to make sense of why a perfectly pleasant evening can leave me feeling so utterly hollow. Like I’m still living in that little village my parents grew up in, even though I pay exorbitant rent in a high-rise downtown. It’s like a split screen in my brain, all the time. One side, cool, modern, independent woman. The other, a ghost of a girl hiding her dreams because they’re too scandalous. And neither one feels like ME, truly. Just two different costumes, I guess. And I’m just so TIRED.