At 24, my mother moved into the flat my father was renting in London. They didn’t know each other; my great-aunt knew of a spare room in Holland Park and my mother needed a place to live. So they became flatmates, and within less than two months they were dating; marriage, my sisters, and me arrived not long after.
I’m simplifying things, of course, but you’ve got to admit relationships did seem come more easily in those days. This isn’t a controversial opinion. It’s well-documented that my generation, Gen Z, is going through a relationship recession, a loneliness epidemic, and a sex drought. Most recently, YouGov reported that one-third of 18- to 29-year-olds have never been in a relationship.
I’m 25, and while I have been in a relationship before, I am currently (and rather reluctantly) single. Minus a few messy situationships it’s been over two years since my last boyfriend.
I don’t consider this a bad thing or a failure on my part. I like the freedom that single life brings, the ability to focus on myself, my friends, and my career. However, as much as I’d like to always be the strong independent woman, there are moments when all I want from life is a relationship. And when this is the case, I do what everyone my age does: turn to the apps, flock to the pub, and pray that this time things will be different. Sadly, they never are.
I can blame myself, which, trust me, I do. But with the issue being more generational rather than just personal, I’m beginning to consider that societal forces may be hindering my capacity to couple up – forces that didn’t exist when my parents were young.
Take, for example, our economic disparity. Cities like London are no longer as welcoming to young people as they used to be. Rent prices are soaring, entry-level jobs are vanishing, and the cost of living crisis is deeming even a trip to the pub an unaffordable luxury. Jumping on the housing ladder, as my parents quickly did, is unfathomable. The average home now costs nine times the average income (it was only four in the 70s).
For me, this has meant a retreat back to my childhood bedroom, relinquishing my independence in the hopes of remaining financially afloat. Absurd when my parents were young, but now, with nearly half of 25-year-olds living at home, it’s largely considered normal.
This does not bode well for my hopes of finding a boyfriend. Nothing’s more of a turn-off than saying, “Sorry we can’t, my parents are home.”
Likewise, don’t expect me to be hooking up on a sticky dance floor in the midst of a drunk night out. Club entry fees, drink prices, and the agony of splurging on an Uber home in the name of safety are all contributing to my withdrawal from Britain’s nightlife, finding comfort instead in a Friday night home alone rewatching episodes of Sex and the City.
Again, there’s nothing wrong with this, only that I highly doubt I’m going to meet the love of my life lying in bed with a cup of tea, head in a screen, scrolling. Oh wait, I forgot, that’s exactly how I’m expected to meet men nowadays. Because I’m single in the age of modern dating, where romance is orchestrated predominantly online via apps like Hinge, Bumble and Tinder.
Brought in to assist us desperate digital natives, apps like these have made dating hard and soul-destroying. I’m still active on Hinge (my favourite), particularly in moments of peak boredom or insecurity. The pattern goes as follows: I swipe optimistically for hours at a time, match and message as many profiles as I can, and then I wait. Maybe I go on one date, but more often it’s just a string sterile conversation, leading nowhere besides me deleting Hinge once more. You can imagine this does wonders for my self-esteem!
And having the majority of our dating pool available at the push of a button has made us hyper-choosy. Sure, my parents were probably equally as committed to finding the perfect match, but they placed far less value on having a “type”, especially one based principally on looks and box-ticking.
‘While, I’ve never known dating without digital interference, I can see that it’s undoubtedly made dating harder, not easier,’ says Esme (Photo: Esme Craig)What’s worse, if you can make it past hours of swiping, ghosting, catfishing, and countless cringe-worthy first dates, you then have the issue of commitment to grapple with – Gen Z’s greatest fear. Choice paralysis generated by dating apps is eliminating the desire to settle down. It’s the knowledge that someone better could always come along or really, that they can be accessed effortlessly online.
In the midst of dating a guy, I discovered he was still active on Hinge (my friend found his profile). I was shocked – we weren’t officially dating but I did think we counted as exclusive. And yet, there he was, still with one eye on the apps, swiping his why through the women of London. True, it was early days, but whatever happened to the honeymoon period? The answer is that it’s been replaced by the probation period – no commitment guaranteed. This is completely normal now.
So, while, I’ve never known dating without digital interference, I can see that it’s undoubtedly made dating harder, not easier. However, it’s not just dating apps fostering my romantic defeatism. It’s the entire digital ecosystem.
Time spent doomscrolling has replaced time with friends and family. Headphones in, we listen to podcasts as opposed to making small talk with strangers, and rather than office banter and post-work drinks, I have email exchanges and Zoom calls.
And above all else, it’s the impact of having so much information about ourselves online: a digital portfolio that potential suitors use to make judgement. I’m guilty of this, unable to resist rummaging through the internet after meeting a guy – Instagram, LinkedIn, Facebook, and even Strava are now dubious tools at the disposal of us singletons.
Unfortunately, though entertaining, this is always counterproductive. You either become overly obsessed with someone you’ve just met (and have to hide the fact that you know everything about them) – or you get the ick before the first date.
We’ve traded anonymity for information and in the process, lost the mystery, spontaneity, and joy that once defined falling in love. My parents could never have imagined this almost Orwellian approach to dating.
So, it’s settled: my generation does have it worse than our parents did when it comes to finding love. But should we take this relationship recession lying down, hoping that fate eventually might save the day? Absolutely not. While generational divides exist, we can still go to our parents for advice that costs nothing. My mother’s?
“Put down your phone, communicate and be prepared to compromise. If that fails, find a single man with a spare bedroom, preferably in Holland Park!”
Any takers?
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