Market Research, But Make It Reproductive

Why my vetting process for men has reached national security levels.

When I was a young girl, I genuinely believed dating would be exactly like it was in cheesy 2000s rom-coms and Barbie movies. The man would turn up to the first date with flowers, yearning unequivocally. Our first kiss would be accompanied by metaphorical fireworks, triggering a mutual epiphany that we were destined to spend the rest of our lives together.

Then I started university.

My boyfriend had just made things official, and we were about to take things a step further. We were sharing what I genuinely believed was an incredibly intimate, beautiful moment. My heart was beating frantically in my chest as I finally said the three words that had been dancing on the tip of my tongue for weeks.

"I love you."

He looked at me, reached over to the bedside table, and my delusional arse genuinely thought he was about to pull out a handwritten love letter. Maybe even a necklace with his initial on it. Something vaguely Nicholas Sparks-coded.

Instead, he pulled out a vape.

And started vaping.

No "I love you" back. No grand declaration. Just blueberry ice.

In retrospect, that probably should've been my first clue that dating in real life had very little in common with the films I'd grown up watching.

The Notebook promised me a love worth remembering. My dating life has mostly left me wishing for Allie's memory loss, just so I could forget another painfully ambiguous situationship.

Somewhere along the way, dating became less romantic and more like a recruitment process, and I accidentally appointed myself Head of HR.

I firmly believe women would make the world's best spies. Give me a man's first name and a few mutual followers, and I'll tell you more about his history than Ancestry.com ever could.

While acclimatising to living alone in London for university, I was also diagnosed with stage IV endometriosis and PCOS. After countless uncomfortable speculum exams, ultrasounds and surgery, I developed a completely new perspective on dating.

Whether it was medically accurate or my anxiety putting on a blazer and pretending to be a fertility specialist, it felt like there was suddenly a countdown clock attached to my future.

Suddenly, dating wasn't just about finding someone I liked. It felt like I was interviewing the potential father of my future children, accompanied by an unnecessarily detailed audit of his entire Instagram following.

Before my diagnosis, I wasn’t even sure if I wanted children. But the moment you’re told something could be taken off the table, it somehow becomes the one thing you can’t stop thinking about.

For a long time, I was angry at my body. I genuinely thought I could shame it into fixing itself, as if enough embarrassment, frustration and self-loathing would somehow make it cooperate.

It didn’t.

Eventually, I realised that all the stress, anxiety and constant internal battle I was having with myself wasn’t helping me feel any more in control.

Naturally, I responded to this revelation in the most balanced way possible: by developing the research skills of a senior MI5 operative.

I started investigating everything I was putting into my body. Ingredients I had previously ignored suddenly became impossible to miss, like a very aggressive game of Where’s Wally, except Wally was apparently hiding in the back of every label.

I became more intentional about my lifestyle, my routines and the way I cared for myself. Slowly, I started feeling more connected to my body again. I experienced fewer symptoms, less pain and eventually regained a more regular cycle.

This was the moment I decided I would never take my body for granted again.

And that included being much more intentional about who I allowed access to it.

So yes, before I sleep with someone, I occasionally find myself conducting what I like to call market research.

The words “psycho” and “stalker” get thrown around so casually when women admit to doing a little investigating. But what I’ve noticed is that the men most offended by the idea of a woman doing her homework are often the ones who have something they’d rather not have uncovered.

Think about it like buying a top online. You check the reviews first. You want to know if the colour is accurate, whether it’s true to size and if it actually looks like the photos.

That’s not being obsessive. That’s just smart purchasing.

And honestly, that’s all I’m trying to do: make sure the man I’m dating is actually what he advertises himself to be.

It might seem irrelevant, but a man’s online presence can reveal more than we like to admit. The suspiciously attractive blonde who appeared after his night out last week. The bikini photo he liked yesterday while he was “too busy to text.” The little details that make you pause and wonder whether your intuition is trying to tell you something.

Sometimes, these aren’t just random details. They’re warning labels.

One thing that has surprised me most about my diagnosis is that I thought it would make me lower my standards. I assumed that, in a desperate attempt to find the love of my life and have children while I still had the chance, I would accept things I previously wouldn’t have.

But the opposite happened.

Through learning to nurture my body, I developed a deeper respect for it. And that self-respect extended far beyond my health. When you learn to love something, you become more protective of it.

I no longer want a relationship that disrupts the peace I have worked so hard to create. I cannot change men, but I can choose what I tolerate.

That doesn’t mean love has become something I can perfectly predict. Love will always be a risk. It is messy, unpredictable and impossible to map out with coordinates leading directly to happily ever after.

My standards are higher than they have ever been, and I’m grateful for that.

Maybe the problem isn’t that I do a little research before letting someone into my life. Maybe the problem is believing that enough research can guarantee I’ll never get hurt.

I can investigate his Instagram, analyse his follower list, and conduct a full background check, but there is no algorithm that can tell me whether someone will truly love me.

At some point, I have to stop looking for proof that someone is safe and start trusting myself enough to walk away if they’re not.