I Support Women’s Rights. So Why Do I Still Need a Man to Fancy Me?

Dating apps may not have caused the validation epidemic, but they have given it a leaderboard.

I could tell you exactly how many men looked at me on a night out with the girls. Not because I have Spidey senses or I’m particularly observant, but because I was conducting a real-time self-performance review. Every time a man glanced in my direction, I was ready to forgive every minor inconvenience life had ever thrown at me.

It’s deeply embarrassing.

Dating apps have only amplified the problem by turning validation into a metric: every like, every comment, every match is another insatiable dopamine hit. It’s only when I stop to actually check my likes that I realise Bartholomew, the grave robber, probably isn’t my type.

It’s easy for me to fill my time with new hobbies, evenings with the girls and self-improvement books when I don’t have a mediocre man to obsess over. I convince myself I’ve finally healed years’ worth of insecurity and relationship trauma after completing one Hot Pilates class.

“Hey, wuu2, haven’t spoken in a while.”

Shit.

Before I know it, I’ve mentally cleared my diary for the next two weeks and am contemplating cancelling my long-awaited NHS appointment, all in the hope that he might ask to see me for a spectacularly underwhelming few hours, most likely sometime after midnight.

I hate it.

The bar for men is currently in hell, yet I’m still apparently extremely bothered if demons don’t find me attractive.

I’d love to dive into the hierarchy of dating apps because, honestly, it’s fascinating how they’ve completely transformed the way we date and, more importantly, how we measure our own worth.

Let’s start at the top of the food chain.

Raya.

Raya is the elite of the elite. It’s where all the hot, famous singles go to mingle with other hot, famous singles. And, just to make the rest of us feel even worse, you need an invite just to get on the app.

It’s essentially an app that says to 80% of the population: “Sorry, you’re not nearly hot enough, famous enough or successful enough to be here. Please return to the trenches of Hinge, Bumble and Tinder and continue fighting for your life.”

The irony? Most of us aren’t even desperate to date a celebrity. We just want the validation of knowing we’d be allowed in.

Tier two of the hierarchy is where Hinge, Bumble and Tinder live: the three most commonly used dating apps. I’m slightly embarrassed to admit I’ve dabbled in all of them, and for the love of God, can someone please explain why people are on dating apps if they’re still “figuring out their dating goals”?

Like… maybe you should have figured that out before you signed up for a dating app?

Even Hinge has a superiority system in place with ‘Standouts’, which are curated profiles that are getting high traction and are therefore rewarded by being pitched to all the lowly dating peasants who can yearn by sending them a rose.

You get close to giving up and deleting your account for good when, finally, one man sends you a hilariously awkward and endearing prompt that makes you reconsider your entire experience.

You spend a beautiful few weeks going on dates, exchanging loving glances and convincing yourself you’ve finally found your soulmate. Then, surprise, surprise, his phone lights up with a Hinge notification that he still conveniently has downloaded, and Chelsea is thanking him for last night.

Fuck my life.

In society’s eyes, apps like Plenty of Fish and Facebook Dating sit lower down the hierarchy because of their reputation for scammers, catfishes and fake profiles. They’re almost seen as a last resort. But why? At the end of the day, they’re no different from every other dating app: they’re all filled with hopeful singles searching for connection while simultaneously fuelling our ever-growing validation epidemic. Maybe we should all spend a little less time chasing matches and a little more time quarantining ourselves from them.

I’m a hypocrite, yes. But at least I’m self-aware.

The irony isn’t lost on me that I’m writing this from a coffee shop while a really hot man keeps walking past the window. Every time he glances in, a tiny part of my brain wonders if he’s about to come over. If he actually does, I’m not entirely sure how I’d explain that I’m currently writing 1,000 words about my crippling need for male validation.

After all of this, I’m still asking myself the same questions. Why doesn’t female validation carry the same weight? Have dating apps simply quantified something that already existed? And why can I never bring myself to delete my account, only pause it?

I don’t think I’m actually looking for a boyfriend. I think I’m looking for proof that I’m desirable, that I’m enough, and I’m starting to question whether these meaningless interactions are really giving me what I’m searching for.

Maybe the problem isn’t that I want men to like me. Maybe it’s that I’ve spent years believing I should like myself more when they do.