By Sinead Mulhern
Between reapplying sunscreen under the equatorial sun and sipping coconut water on the beach, I find myself doing something that has become an almost seasonal ritual: deleting the dating apps from my phone.
Good riddance, I think, watching the icons disappear as if dragging out emotional clutter with them. The dopamine rush is temporary, but oddly satisfying. I always feel like I’m taking back control of my life—reclaiming my time, my mental space, and my peace.
But inevitably, a few weeks later, there they are again. Re-downloaded. Re-logged in. Re-hopeful.
“Maybe this time…” I whisper to no one, half-convinced that things might be different.
By now, the act of deleting dating apps feels less like an act of bold self-care and more like taking out the trash. A chore. Necessary, recurring, and uninspiring. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve removed Tinder or Bumble from my phone, declaring dramatically to myself that I’m better off alone.
But somehow, I always come back.
Dating Abroad: More Than Just a Language Barrier
Living abroad adds a complicated layer to an already exhausting system. I’ve been in Ecuador for nearly seven years. That’s seven years of navigating not only a second language, but a second dating culture entirely.
Here, courtship looks different. The communication style is different. The expectations are different. And all of those unspoken rules? Completely different.
A flirty comment in English might feel light and breezy, but in Spanish, it can come off more intense—or even confusing. Sometimes I’m not even sure if someone is flirting or just being overly polite. The cultural nuances of texting or ghosting or what a “good morning” message actually means—these things don’t always translate cleanly.
And let’s not forget the general fatigue of dating in 2025. Even without the cultural gaps, dating apps have turned romance into a fast-paced game of visuals, bios, and opening lines. It’s not even about connection half the time—it’s about attention.
Swiping Is Not the Same as Searching
When you live abroad, apps feel like the easiest way to meet people. Without the built-in social network of family, childhood friends, or coworkers from a steady hometown job, the pool of potential partners in real life is… shallow.
So you turn to the apps. Everyone does. It’s convenient, it’s simple, and in some ways, it makes meeting people feel like a game you could win.
But after a while, it begins to feel like a different kind of loneliness. One where you’re surrounded by profiles instead of people, chats instead of conversations, matches instead of meaning.
What I’ve Learned from Swiping in a Foreign Country
Over time, I’ve built up a quiet catalog of grievances with dating apps—and dating culture in general.
First, there’s the performance of it all. The pressure to present your best self, craft the wittiest bio, choose the most flattering photos, and craft clever messages—all while trying not to sound like you’re trying too hard.
Then there’s the time drain. Dating apps can trick you into thinking you’re making progress, when really, you’re just investing in conversations that fizzle out before the second message. Or worse, ones that go nowhere but still manage to take up space in your head.
And of course, there’s the assumption that as a foreigner, you’re either exoticized or misunderstood—or both. There have been times I’ve felt like an anthropological curiosity more than a person someone genuinely wants to get to know.
Still, for all the frustration, the truth is this: the benefits outweigh the downsides.
Why I Keep Coming Back
I don’t believe dating apps are inherently bad. They’re tools, and like any tool, it depends on how you use them.
What they offer me—a solo woman living abroad—is the chance to meet people I would never otherwise cross paths with. It offers companionship, occasional fun, and sometimes, a real connection that makes it all worth it.
There’s a kind of resilience that comes with choosing to be open, even when it’s easier to be cynical. Every swipe is a small act of hope.
Maybe this one won’t ghost me.
Maybe this one isn’t looking for just a fling.
Maybe this one will understand both my language and my heart.
That hope is the quiet reason I keep reinstalling, even after every digital heartbreak.
So, yes, I’ll probably delete them again soon. Maybe even tomorrow. But I know myself well enough now to admit—I’ll be back.
Not because I’m addicted, but because in a world that feels more disconnected than ever, there’s still something brave about trying.
And maybe—just maybe—that’s worth the swipe.
