The Politics of Ghosting

The Politics of Ghosting

On care, dignity, and modern dating

We can, for any number of reasons, feel justified in withholding care from others, choosing instead to prioritize only ourselves. For much of my life, I've leaned in the opposite direction — neglecting my own needs while centering the needs of others. In an effort to recalibrate, to land in that radical middle space, I've sometimes swung too far the other way, treating self-care as if it were in conflict with care for others. These days, I'm working to right-size care in my life — making space for both self-respect and mutual responsibility.

Much has been — and should be — written about the politics of self-neglect. But in this moment, I find myself preoccupied with something else: the absence of other-care. I'm reflecting on the roots of our callousness — the lies we've been told and the lies we tell ourselves. The way we assume we are always already living our best values. The ways we justify our refusal to care. How we explain away our obligations to one another — from the White House to the workplace, from Congress to the dining room. And how, even in our most intimate choices — like who we date and how — we unconsciously mirror the very dynamics we claim to resist.

First dates, and the quiet unraveling that often follows, make for a compelling case study in how we care — or don't. While romantic sparks aren't always guaranteed, care and dignity should be. Still, the politics of our time — marked by neglect and disposability — too often seep into our most intimate interactions.

A Voice, Then a Void

Why do we ghost each other? What does our silence say about who we've become?

By the time we had our first date, Sage and I had already been talking for a couple of weeks. We had been texting every day — multiple times a day — and had started chatting on the phone. I remember Sage calling me during a break at work "just to hear your voice." The words hung in the air between us like a promise. Things felt promising. I was excited to meet Sage in person.

We spotted each other by the entrance of a Brooklyn restaurant nestled on a quiet, spacious street. That first hug was gentle and sweet — the kind that suggests possibility without demanding it. Almost immediately, we settled into our chairs and purposeful conversation, talking about passions, work, and life goals. Sage shared freely and so did I. There were no fits and starts in the conversation — just flow. Or so I thought.

I'm an inquisitive sort, so I typically ask open-ended questions that create space for someone to share whatever they feel comfortable sharing. I follow up by reflecting what I've heard, checking that my understanding is accurate, and asking thoughtful follow-up questions. I've been told it feels less like an interview and more like an act of caring attention and attunement.

Time seemed to disappear as Sage and I fell deeper into conversation. The restaurant noise faded to a gentle hum. At some point, as if suddenly resurfacing from underwater, we became aware of the clock. We both had work the next day. It was time to say our goodbyes and take separate subway lines home. We hugged again — longer this time — and exchanged initial commitments to stay in touch and to confirm we'd gotten home safely.

I remember being unsure whether there was a romantic spark. The conversation seemed engaging enough to both of us, but as professionals we were used to deploying performance and pleasantries to navigate awkward situations. I remember thinking, "Well, this could go either way."

When I got home, I did what I typically do following a first date. I wrote a simple, thoughtful note:

Hey Sage. I hope you got home safely — please let me know when you can. I really enjoyed our conversation, and I'd like the chance to continue it. If you're open to it, I'd love to take you out sometime soon. Thank you again for tonight, and I hope to hear from you soon. Either way, I'm grateful for our time together. Get some rest.

When I woke up the next morning, I realized I hadn't heard back from Sage. I was a bit worried — mostly about their safety. Too often, Black and brown queer people are harassed, assaulted, and killed on streets that should be safe for everyone. When our identities are weaponized against us, and dehumanizing stories leak into behavior, we rarely escape unscathed. The history of the body — its vulnerability to violation — came into full view. So I called Sage. No response.

The stark contrast between our constant daily contact and this wall of silence left me with two possibilities: something had happened to Sage, or something had happened to Sage's interest in me. I had crime alerts set up on my phone and belonged to a neighborhood listserv that shared everything — both the trivial and the tragic. But nothing concerning came through — then or in the days that followed. No assaults. No reports of violence. I came to the conclusion: I had been ghosted.

Making Sense of My Experience

No one enjoys rejection — especially when it's unexpected and we've had little time to brace for it. But disappointment is a natural part of life, a human response when expectations clash with reality. It's entirely possible to believe a date went better than it did for the other person — or to miss subtle, unspoken cues that things weren't going as smoothly as imagined.

This is part of the risk inherent in perception. While we possess a remarkable capacity to move beyond the confines of our own experience through empathy, we remain deeply subjective beings. We see the world through the body we inhabit — yet our vision is often shaped, and constrained, by the boundaries of our flesh. As a result, there can be a gap between how we believe we're coming across and how we're actually perceived — or between what we assume others are feeling and what they would say is true for them.

Such disjuncture is part of everyday life — especially in dating, where two people are simultaneously trying to understand themselves and each other. That Sage may have lost romantic interest in me was entirely within the realm of possibility. It wasn't that likelihood that unsettled me, though — yet I had to look inward to be sure. I needed to make certain I wasn't slipping into a masculinist sense of entitlement, mistaking my disappointment for injustice, or reacting with the emotional equivalent of a quiet temper tantrum.

Feminist thinkers have taught me to begin with critical self-reflection. Why? Because, despite my efforts, some of the unhealthy patterns encoded in dominant masculinity still live in me — and may shape how I see and relate to people of all identities.

I often think about the hyper-masculine movements that emerged in backlash to feminist progress — where men rallied around the belief that they were being denied their rightful dominion, miscasting the advancement of women and other people with marginalized gender identities or expressions as an unjust threat to their own power and status. This toxicity is in the air we breathe.

Socialized as a man in this gender-stratified, heteronormative society, I've worked hard to unlearn the hidden (and not-so-hidden) codes of masculinity that assume rights to others' time, energy, and bodies. And there is still more work for me to do, no doubt.

Yet upon deeper reflection, I didn't feel that Sage's silence had bruised my sense of masculinity. I didn't feel activated in the place in me where patriarchy still lives — at least its shadow. On the contrary, I felt activated in my humanity. Not because I thought I deserved a second date, but because I wondered what about my being or behavior disqualified me, in Sage's eyes, from being worthy of a note. A note to say they got home safely. A note to say: I'm not feeling a romantic connection, but I appreciate the time we shared. Something.

In the absence of any response, I was left to make meaning of their silence. I don't know Sage's lived experience or how they experienced me, and I recognize the need for humility about what may have been unfolding in their life at the time. It's possible that something I said or did was so off-putting that cutting off contact — without explanation — felt like the safest or sanest choice. Sage lives in a body attuned to hyper-vigilance, and may have cultivated tools for self-protection that I can't fully understand.

One story I told myself was that perhaps Sage had been mistreated by men. Maybe that's all I represented to them — a man, distilled down to my gender identity and the immense harm men have inflicted in the world. Perhaps discarding me was a trauma response from someone who had too often chosen — or been forced to choose — others, especially men, over themselves.

Still, I had hoped for a different, more caring exchange — not in an extractive way, but as a gesture of reciprocity for the care I had extended. The experience prompted deeper reflection on care in the context of dating — and how we might more faithfully embody our best values in the intimate corridors of our lives.

Navigating Boundaries in Dating

How do we honor both our need for safety and our obligation to treat others with dignity?

Ghosting feels, to me, like a last resort — not a first choice. For instance, if after a first date, you communicate that you're not interested in a second, and the person keeps reaching out, trying to convince you otherwise — then ghosting can be an act of boundary-setting. We don't owe people multiple explanations, especially when the expected emotional investment far exceeds the relationship itself.

But ghosting as a first move — when other options exist — feels harmful. It implies people are disposable. It suggests how we treat others in our intimate lives is inconsequential. I believe in continuity and consistency in my politics. The care I want reflected in our institutions, policies, and civic spaces is the same care I try to cultivate in my interpersonal relationships.

I practice reciprocity. I disrupt power imbalances. I resist cruelty, both structural and interpersonal. I practice relational care that reflects, in the personal sphere, the kind of world I want to help build. I don't always get it right, but I try — intentionally and earnestly. And when I fall short, I take responsibility and try again.

So the irony is not lost on me: many who ghost as their primary form of boundary-setting may see themselves as good people. They may believe their politics are rooted in protection and care. They may believe that caring for themselves and caring for others cannot be held in the same frame — a kind of zero-sum logic. Yet they don't see the contradiction in ghosting. It's not care. It's a mirror of capitalist neglect.

Being ghosted — regardless of who does the ghosting — can feel classically masculine: cold, clinical, detached. In environments shaped by dominant masculinity, the emotional range available to some of us is often limited to being aloof or being angry. But neither emotion is particularly useful at helping us hold our own dignity and that of others simultaneously.

Dignity reflects our fundamental desire to be seen, heard, and valued. Unlike respect — which is earned through effort, achievement, or admirable conduct — dignity is inherent.

Dignity scholars remind us that it is not something we attain but something we possess by virtue of our shared humanity. It is what we owe one another simply because we exist. Honoring dignity should shape every aspect of our lives — even in moments of disagreement, separation, or rupture.

A Teachable Moment

What happens when the very people who speak the language of care fail to practice it?

Over a year after my date with Sage, I got a call from my dear friend Amanda. I could hear unevenness in her voice — that particular tremor that comes when someone is trying to stay composed while feeling deeply hurt. Just days earlier, we'd been catching up over drinks with our friend Winston who was visiting from out of state. The three of us had not been together in years, so this was a particularly merry moment. As we shared stories and insights, I noticed an energy between Amanda and Winston that recalled something from a decade ago — an old spark that had never caught fire.

Two hours into the evening I left the pair (strategically, I might add). I later learned that the two continued spending time together until 4 a.m. the next morning. They wandered from venue to venue, talking deeply and kissing tenderly, dancing on the edge of something more.

As the night ended, Amanda — ever vigilant— moved from final kiss to safety calculus. Would she risk a late subway ride or spring for an Uber? She decided the latter was safest. Winston, seemingly aware of the gender-based risks Amanda faced — risks he himself didn't bear — offered to Venmo her for half the cost. Amanda felt seen.

But then… nothing. No text to ask if she got home safe. No Venmo. No check-in. No "after-care," as she called it.

"Jason," Amanda said, "he didn't even text me to ask if I got home safely. And he didn't Venmo me. I don't understand."

The nighttime streets of most major cities in the United States can be deeply unsettling for women and others with marginalized gender identities and expressions. For those most targeted by gender-based violence, it's common practice to check in on one another after a night out. Even a barely self-aware man — particularly one well-versed in gender theory from college and grad school — should know better, and act like it.

Winston seemed to embrace a duty of care — or at least spoke the language of it — and appeared intellectually attuned to how gender is so often weaponized to suppress care. Yet he chose to abandon this duty of care at a crucial moment. He had come across as thoughtful. Intentional. Capable of balancing self-care and other-care. The kind of man who read bell hooks and Audre Lorde. But was he simply a shinier version of the same old pattern?

Amanda was disappointed — not because she had expected romance to bloom. She hadn't. "I just wanted him to be a good man. I wanted him to be better than that," she said. Amanda and I spent an hour psychoanalyzing the silence. Why hadn't he texted? Why hadn't he followed through? Did he really have a politics of care — or was this the emotional equivalent of economic divestment? Out of sight, out of mind. Or was it that Winston had assumed — wrongly, as men so often do — that she was desperate for him, and that any gesture of care would be misread as romantic interest he didn't reciprocate? Care withheld as a preemptive defense.

Ghosting left the emotional labor in Amanda's hands. Similarly to when I grappled with Sage's silence, Amanda replayed the evening, wondering what went wrong — if she had misread the chemistry. While the thought hadn't occurred to her, I wondered aloud if Winston was, however unconsciously, punishing her for setting physical boundaries — for limiting their intimacy to kisses and hugs, even though he had clearly communicated openness to, perhaps even desire for, more. Amanda waited. But Winston never followed up. And she, rightly, chose not to chase him.

This wasn't about longing — it was about dignity. Amanda wasn't even afforded what I think of as "the emotional minimum wage": the basic empathy and care we owe one another, simply by virtue of our shared humanity.

Lessons Learned

How do we bridge the gap between our stated values and our lived behavior?

These and other experiences have pushed me to examine the gap between my values and my behavior — between my political commitments and my personal conduct. In response, I've begun to practice something different, drawing on wisdom gathered from many voices. I'm consciously choosing wholeness: allowing my inner life and outer actions to align — the very definition of integrity.

This is a daily labor of love. I could spend all day lamenting the world as it is — the cruelty, the politics of disposability — but if I don't confront how those forces have taken root in me, if I don't do the work to uproot them, then real change won't come. So I'm choosing to live the world I long for — now. And each time I make that choice, the politics of that new world — of kindness and care — break through, just a little more, into this one.

Here's what I've learned along the way:

After-care can take many forms: a thank-you text, a safety check, a kind decline.

A simple act of after-care costs me little.

Failing to demonstrate care, however small the lapse, can do real harm.

My omissions of care may reflect unconscious ideologies that contradict my stated values.

Care is how I practice integrity. It's how I honor the part of me that lives in others.

I can balance care for others with care for myself. Boundaries don't require callousness; they require intentionality.

These are actions we can all take to practice care while dating. Binary choices — aloof or enmeshed, direct or distant — are seductive, but unsatisfying. I can choose a third way: to be honest and boundaried and warm and respectful.

When we don't practice our best values, allowing them to exist in name only, we hollow out our own ethical commitments. As a friend recently told me, when we ghost others, we also ghost ourselves.

A Refreshing Encounter

What does it look like when we choose care over convenience?

I found myself sitting in a booth, awaiting another first date. The familiar flutter of anticipation mixed with anxiety. I was so eager to spend time with River in person that I arrived early — a habit born of both politeness and the need to settle my nerves. For two weeks, we'd been FaceTiming, texting, and talking on the phone before finally landing an in-person date. River was punctual, thoughtful, and stylish. They'd already sent a text: "I just got to Myrtle so give me a min to find it lol." Care was already at work.

When River arrived, we dropped almost immediately into a wide-ranging conversation — about workplace dynamics and unwieldy bosses, family relationships, the past relationship trauma we still carried, and our hopes for something new and different. River was clear: they hated being ghosted and preferred straightforward communication. I took note. A person doesn't request a particular kind of care unless they've felt its absence.

Midway through our conversation, River — softly and a bit apologetically — asked me for a kiss. I was happy to oblige. It was a tender moment, but I didn't feel a spark. As the date continued, and as we transitioned from one venue to another, we kissed and hugged two more times. Still, the spark didn't arrive for me — though I could tell it had for River.

After River was whisked away by the Uber I had called to ease their commute on a hot day, it was only a few moments before we exchanged messages of gratitude for the time spent together. The rest of the day was peppered with warm, funny texts.

As had become my practice, I gave myself the evening to reflect on the date and to parse the mix of emotions within before committing to a second date. It became clear that while I genuinely enjoyed River's company and found them to be a wonderful human, the romantic connection simply wasn't there for me. I knew I needed to communicate this — but how?

How could I find language that honored the real connection I had experienced with River while also being clear that it leaned more toward friendship than romance? If Brené Brown is right that clear is kind, then I would need to find a way to offer both clarity and care. And so I wrote — using words perhaps too characteristic of my love of language and emotional self-expression:

dear river,

i've been sitting with such deep gratitude after our time together. you are truly a bright, beautiful soul — hilarious, resilient, smart, sweet, and fierce all at once. i was so moved by your clarity about what you want in a partner and your open-hearted willingness to love fully and truly.

it's rare to meet someone so intentional and grounded in who they are. and your style! i was in awe — you wear your joy and creativity so well.

i want to be honest with you, because you deserve nothing less. after sleeping on it, i realized that while i really, really like you — and admire you immensely — the romantic chemistry isn't quite there for me. my heart feels drawn more toward friendship.

i feel tender about sharing this, because i think the world of you, and i hope this doesn't diminish the sweet space we shared.

thank you again for your time, your warmth, and your energy. it was a true gift to meet you, and i'm cheering for all the beauty life has in store for you.

with care, jase

River's first response was brief: "Thank you for your honesty, I appreciate it." But later, they wrote:

I just wanted to let you know and make it clear that I am not mad or upset at all. I really do enjoy your presence as well. Would love to hang out, as friends of course. Definitely have a spot in my circle for a good friend.

That exchange left me hopeful — for myself, for River, for this messy world of humans seeking connection.

I had done what I set out to do: honor the person, honor myself, and act in alignment with my politics of care.

And my gesture was, finally, reciprocated.

An Invitation

What world are we creating with our smallest choices?

In my view, the world needs more people committed to a politics of care all the way down — from the systems that govern us to the fleeting moments that define our human interactions. This care costs less than we think and gives more than we usually imagine.

We may lose time. We may spend more energy. But what we gain is priceless: peace, alignment, and the unshakable integrity of a life undivided.

Every text we send, every silence we choose, every gesture of care or carelessness — these are not just personal choices. They are political acts. They are votes for the kind of world we want to live in. In a culture that teaches us to treat each other as disposable, choosing care is radical. It's a quiet revolution, one conversation at a time.

The question isn't whether we'll be hurt or disappointed in dating and relationships. We will. The question is whether we'll respond to that hurt by passing it on or by choosing something different. Whether we'll ghost ourselves and others, or whether we'll stay present — messy, vulnerable, and awake to the humanity in everyone we meet.

The choice, always, is ours to make.

Jason Craige Harris is a writer, observer, and strategist working at the intersection of culture, leadership, and social impact. Through essays, talks, and advisory work, he examines the forces that shape human connection and institutional life — power, identity, dignity, and repair. Drawing on ethics, psychology, and systems thinking, Jason helps individuals and organizations navigate complexity, confront harm, and cultivate cultures of care. A trusted facilitator, coach, and mediator, he is known for using storytelling and humor to spark reflection, deepen humility, and catalyze transformation. He is currently writing a book of essays on dignity, relationships, leadership — and the shadow work required of us all. Jason lives in the United States.