Last night, I went on a date.
That sentence alone feels strange to type. Not dramatic, not groundbreaking — just quietly strange. Because it’s been a while. And because the idea of opening that door again has felt, at times, like walking barefoot into a room full of broken glass.
The truth is, my track record with relationships hasn’t exactly been stellar. I’ve made mistakes. I’ve trusted the wrong people. I’ve stayed too long, left too late, or avoided it altogether out of fear I’d mess it up again. So much of my past has been shaped by the push and pull of wanting connection but fearing the cost of it.
So saying yes to this date wasn’t about chasing romance. It was about proving to myself that I could try again — not with rose-tinted optimism, but with honesty. With self-awareness. With both eyes open.
The date itself? It was fine. Not awkward, not electric. A steady, neutral kind of okay. They were kind. We talked. I listened, smiled, nodded. But if I’m being completely honest, I didn’t walk away with a sense of something. No spark, no gut instinct saying “this could be it.” Just… a quiet stillness that left me wondering if I’m still guarding myself more than I realise.
And maybe I am. Maybe after everything, I’m allowed to.
But I didn’t ghost it. I didn’t run. I didn’t talk myself out of it or convince myself I wasn’t worth the risk. I showed up. As I am now — a little bruised, a little wiser, and still trying to believe that the right connection won’t always feel like a battlefield.
I’m not sure what happens next. Maybe nothing. Maybe a second date. Maybe just this small reminder that I’m still capable of trying. Of hoping. Of gently testing the water without drowning in it.
That’s where I am. And for now, that’s enough.