Shattered mirrors

Of old selves and dating dynamics

I have two openings for new clients seeking 1:1 sessions in Creative Alchemy—Book a discovery call to learn more

The “Cultivating Compassion in Times of Fascism” Coloring Book comes out this Friday! Join a community coloring party to connect and co-regulate

Two of Mosaiceye Collective’s flagship programs start in September to transform our relationships with our inner critics, our creativity and free expression

The other day, a mirror that was hanging on my closet door fell and shattered all over the floor. Shards of reflective glass scattered everywhere, fragments of my face reflected back as I stood above them.

At the time, I was on the phone having a first conversation with someone I had met on Hinge. I told him what had happened.

He offered a quick interpretation, "could it be that a part of you has shattered? An identity that’s completed its cycle and no longer serves you?"

I appreciated the perspective.

It was, honestly, the most resonant thing he had said on the call. Up until then, I perceived him to be quite aloof and sanctimonious.

Earlier in the conversation, I had shared that I was feeling a bit burnt out with the dating apps—the disposability, the ghosting, the unreliable communication. In response, he said he approached it all with no expectations. He receives what the universe gives and makes do with what he gets, so he never feels disappointed. He said, “some people set themselves up for disappointment by expecting specific things from the app.” Was he talking about me? I wondered. He went on to say that whether a connection turns out to be romantic, platonic, or nothing at all, he’s “great either way” because he doesn’t take it too seriously.

That might be an admirable approach—even aspirational. But as his first response to my vulnerability, I felt it to be disconnecting (I really want to say dismissive, but I’m actively trying to use non-violent communication here and take responsibility for my own feelings :P).

I could just see a younger version of myself being very attracted to his nonchalance. She would’ve thought, Wow, I want to be that chill, detached, and “in the flow.”

But I’ve been learning that sometimes detachment is just another costume for avoidance. Avoiding desire. Avoiding the courage it takes to name what you want. Avoiding the rawness, eroticism and aliveness that come with fully feeling. Is it easier to be “great either way” when we’re not touching into the fullness of our hearts?