For any despondent singles reading this, know that you're not alone – someone out there also just re-downloaded Hinge today for the fifth time this year after vowing they never would again.
This article is part of The Brussels Times' dating series, which includes columns and interviews with experts and members of the public on all matters of the heart.
Hello to you, dear reader. We meet again. It's seven months to the day since I published my first dating column, which (accidentally) kicked off this series – and it seems rather fitting that I mark the occasion with one final column before I leave The Brussels Times for pastures new.
That first article was born out of both my editor's pleas for Valentine's Day content and my exhaustion with trying (and usually failing) to date in the Belgian capital. And apparently I'm not the only one.
I've since received dozens of heartfelt emails and messages with similar stories, which show there is a real need for human connection – a need that too often isn't being met.
Swiped out
Walii, 40, from Pakistan, told me he's downloaded and deleted apps countless times, and even paid for subscriptions, each time "hoping for something real, but in all this time, I have only met a couple of people I could even mention", he said.
Walii thinks the daily grind of swiping, hoping, and being let down is a broader reflection that something is broken in how we socialise.
"I'm 40 now, working, and still searching for a real connection. I've gone to the gym, meetups, badminton, and even kayaking. Still, the right match feels elusive. But I try to stay positive; I truly believe things happen in their time," he told me.
Pieter, 38, from Flanders, meanwhile, decided to "rage quit all the apps and instead resort to podcasts and trying to meet people in real life" after a few unsuccessful dates. But "[plucking] up the courage to talk to random strangers of the opposite sex has had a pretty low success rate," he said.
Jennifer*, 31, who grew up in Brussels, is on a dating app hiatus because of the "sheer exhaustion" she felt while using them, due to how "impersonal, transactional and exhausting" the apps feel. "We forget that we're dealing with another human on the other end."
Other readers' stories became articles, such as the Finnish woman who was scared of dating, the Balkan man expected to order his dates Ubers and buy them flowers, or the over 50s looking for "good sex" and companionship.
Own teeth
Each conversation I've had on dating over the last year comes back to the same topic: the apps – and the fatigue and frustration that come with them.
I know I'm not the only one in thinking prompts on people's profiles are mind-numbingly repetitive, or, frankly, concerning. Here are some recent (real) examples for those fortunate enough to not know what I'm talking about:
- "Travel addict. Gym regular. Financially stable. Own teeth. Not looking for: drama."
- "A random fact I love is: I can move my knee in a special way."
- "Don't be mad if: I inspire you to unlock your potential."
- "Life is not about the number of breaths you take; it's about the moments that take your breath away."
- "My greatest strength: I got a tiny ass but a huge heart."
- "Born by the sea, and if I don't see it for too long, I literally can't breathe." (This man lives in a city – I do hope he's still alive and well.)
- And last but certainly not least: "First round is on me if: Your ex isn't alive."
The endless selfies – mostly in gyms – don't help matters. The worst I've seen was of a man smiling outside the Berlin Holocaust memorial. Why he ever thought that would be a good photo for a dating profile, we will never know.
Man deletes dating apps from his phone. Credit: Openverse
With the rising use of apps, dating seems to have become a kind of online shopping – we swipe on people as if we're adding them to our basket. People have become commodities, and we forget there's a real person behind the screen.
This commodification results in what Dr Janneke Schokkenbroek, Assistant Professor of Health Psychology at Erasmus University Rotterdam, dubs "online dehumanisation", which perpetuates behaviours such as ghosting and zombieing. (Shoutout to my zombie who once again texted last night, right on cue. The man can sense when a new column is coming, I swear.)
So, perhaps romance isn't dead, but our approach to it is.
I love a good 90s or early 00s rom-com. But gone are the grand declarations of love and the days of Matthew McConaughey chasing your taxi across Manhattan Bridge on a motorbike or Richard Gere scaling the wall of your New York apartment (probably for the best – he's 77 now).
In 2026, you're lucky if someone even replies to your opening line on Hinge. Personally, I almost swoon at the sight of a man holding open a door for me or wishing me a bonne journée (the bar is in hell).
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In reality, though, men don't need to scale buildings for me. It'd just be nice to find someone who likes my quirks, questionable puns and doesn't mind me yapping about politics after one beer, breaking into spontaneous song, or recounting a pointless anecdote just because it popped into my head. He must, of course, also be able to make a decent cup of tea.
But despite what my columns and dating marathons may imply, I am not having an existential crisis (exactly what someone having an existential crisis would say). And I'm also not desperate to find someone right now.
I'm right where I need to be – and unless a man can bring something good to the strange little dinner party that is my life, I'm afraid he's not welcome. There are already too many wonderful people sitting around my table.
Brussels Bradshaw, over and out.
*Name has been changed to protect the speaker's identity.
