It started as a self-love experiment. You know, one of those “this year I’m focusing on 

” moments where you announce it on Instagram with a moody black-and-white photo of your hand holding a coffee mug like it’s your emotional support animal.

I had just gotten out of a situationship so confusing it made IKEA instructions look like Shakespeare. So I said, “That’s it. I’m dating 

this year.” Full commitment. No cheating with ex-texts. No flirting with validation from strangers. Just me and me. The ultimate power couple.

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Date nights with candles. Long walks where I complimented my own outfit. Picnics where I packed my favorite snacks and pretended to laugh at my own jokes like I was charming myself on a park bench. I even wrote myself flirty goodnight texts like:

I’d read them and blush like, “Aww, I’m really into me.”

Self-care Sundays were lit. Face masks, bubble baths, soft jazz playing while I stared at my own reflection like a narcissist in a perfume commercial. I even took myself to a hotel once—fancy robe, room service, whispered sweet nothings to my own pillow.

I’d schedule a solo movie night, then cancel because “I’m tired.”

I promised a spa day, then ghosted myself to scroll on TikTok for six hours watching cats scream into voids.

One time, I literally stood myself up for brunch. Booked the table. Got dressed. Then decided “I don’t really feel like seeing me today” and stayed in bed watching true crime documentaries, wondering why everyone in them ignored the red flags.

I was doing to myself what every toxic partner had ever done to 

I was love-bombing and breadcrumbing myself.

Treating myself like a summer fling when I promised a lifelong commitment.

Saying all the right things but showing up only when it was convenient.

Sending good morning texts, then ignoring myself all day.

Promising presence, but delivering ghost stories.

Because turns out, dating yourself is harder than it sounds.

You can’t pretend to like the same bands.

You can’t lie about your childhood trauma.

And worse? You can’t block your own number.

So halfway through the year, I sat myself down for “the talk.”

I said, “Listen, I love you. But you’re emotionally unavailable, and honestly? Kind of flaky.”

I told myself I deserved better. More presence. More honesty. More follow-through.

I said I wasn’t mad, just disappointed (classic).

Like a messy romcom character in act three, I finally got my sh*t together.

I started showing up. Not always with flowers, but with time.

I kept promises to myself—even when they were small.

I stopped waiting to “feel like it” and just 

I treated myself less like a crush and more like a commitment.

Still codependent, still occasionally problematic, but hey—who isn’t?

Because real love—whether for others or for yourself—isn’t about never messing up.

Even when you flaked. Even when you failed. Even when you weren’t your best.

So if you’re thinking of dating yourself this year?

It’s therapy. It’s healing. It’s uncomfortable honesty and awkward solo dinners where you cry into sushi because you forgot you hate raw fish.

The radical act of not abandoning yourself—even when you’d rather run.

So here’s to the ones who ghost themselves—and still choose to stay.

Tell me—have you ever ghosted yourself, flaked on your own dreams, or stood yourself up for brunch? Drop your story in the comments.

Because yeah, it’s messy. But you’re not alone—and you still deserve love. Especially from you.

💬 Write in the comments: What’s the weirdest or most wonderful thing you’ve ever done for yourself? Bonus points if it involved wine, waffles, or wildly unnecessary online shopping.

The Year I Dated Myself—and Still Got Ghosted

By Someone Who Should’ve Just Swiped Left on Themselves

It started as a self-love experiment. You know, one of those “this year I’m focusing on me” moments where you announce it on Instagram with a moody black-and-white photo of your hand holding a coffee mug like it’s your emotional support animal.



The Year I Dated Myself—and Still Got Ghosted

By Someone Who Should’ve Just Swiped Left on Themselves

About the Creator

Angela David

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