The difference between wanting connection and wanting to be chosen: what a 72‑hour romance taught me about dating in my thirties
Almost two years ago, I had a 72‑hour romance with a man I met at a friend’s wedding.
He wasn’t my type on paper (who is, at this point), but he was tall, charming, and unfortunately, the perfect distraction from an on‑again, off‑again situationship I should’ve ended long ago. Looking back, I’m sure I was a distraction for him too.
We only met twice that weekend. At first, my reaction was a firm “ugh, bugger off.” Then it shifted to “interesting?” because there’s something seductive about the idea that love appears when you’re not looking. Suddenly I felt lighter. Hopeful, even.
We ignored the red flags — his and mine. I called it a “spark,” but really it was boredom dressed up as excitement. I was 28. Not that it changes anything.
We texted for about 72 hours. The last thing I sent him was:
“Your replies are absolutely shit.”
I went to sleep.
The next day… nothing.
The day after that… still nothing.
And suddenly I was checking my phone constantly. At work, while cooking, between EastEnders. My screen time was already a solid 4–5 hours a day, but those days must’ve been worse.
One night, sitting on the toilet doom‑scrolling TikTok, videos about being chronically single, ghosted dates, and “cons of being a hopeless romantic” kept popping up on my FYP. And it hit me.
Was I a hopeless romantic… or just desperate?
Because the truth is, I was showing signs of a chronically desperate babe.
Not over a boyfriend.
A man I’d spoken to properly for three days.
I was checking my phone like I was waiting for exam results. Humiliating.
But the worst part? I don’t think it was about him.
It was the excitement. The possibility. The attention. The idea that maybe, finally, something romantic had fallen into my lap naturally instead of through Hinge and emotional warfare.
Dating in your thirties is strange.
Dating as a Black woman in your thirties is even stranger.
On one hand, you’re told to know your worth. Raise your standards. Protect your peace.
On the other, there’s a quiet panic whispering underneath it all that every boundary narrows your options, that every birthday is another podcast or think‑piece reminding you that dating is “harder” for Black women.
Whether it’s true or not, hearing it enough starts to do something to you.
You begin to wonder if you’re genuinely excited about someone, or just relieved somebody seems interested.
And that’s a dangerous place to date from.
Because relief and connection are not the same thing.
I still think I’m a hopeless romantic — unfortunately.
I still love the idea of love. Eye contact. Chemistry. Accidental hand touches. A man making me laugh so hard I temporarily forget all feminism and common sense.
But romance looks different to me now.
Less emotional chaos.
Less proving myself.
Less mistaking inconsistency for excitement just because a man is tall and emotionally unavailable.
Growth.
Though yes, I still have a rotation of harmless crushes I have no intention of entertaining. The frontal lobe is developed, but she’s still clocking overtime.
At freshly thirty (152.083 days, if we’re being precise), I’ve started reframing how I date. I know my boundaries, my limits, my triggers; and I don’t question them anymore. Not even for Lil Bow Wow and Lil Fizz.
The 72‑hour wedding guy taught me more than he realises.
Infatuation and imagination are a dangerous combination.
But I’m grateful for the experience. Because looking back, I don’t think the problem was that I was a hopeless romantic. And I don’t think I was desperate either.
I think I was human.
I wanted to be chosen. To feel excited about someone. To believe a random wedding encounter could turn into something more. There’s nothing embarrassing about that.
What was embarrassing was acting like my self‑worth depended on whether a man I’d known for 72 hours texted me back.
Growth is recognising the difference.
Maybe that’s what your thirties are really about. Not becoming some perfectly healed woman who never gets attached or overthinks, but knowing yourself a little better than before.
Knowing when you’re seeking connection and when you’re seeking validation.
Knowing when to stay and when to leave.
Knowing that loneliness and desperation aren’t the same thing.
I don’t have all the answers. I may never have them.
But these days, I trust myself a lot more than I trust potential.
That feels like a good place to start.