I never thought I’d grow tired of hearing “pretty” or “beautiful,” or being told how desirable I am—in the most vulgar, surface-level ways. I’m not trying to sound conceited. I know I’m not everyone’s cup of tea, but I do have my following. If only they truly knew me. Really knew me.
I also never imagined I’d be 31, single, bouncing from one date to another, searching for my soulmate while the rest of the world seems to have it all figured out. Keyword: seems. I know I’m not the only one navigating 30-something solitude, but on a lonely Friday night, it can feel like I am. Don’t tell me I have to be okay with being alone. Life is too short not to have someone in your selfie.
To fight the fear of always being solo, I swipe. I scroll. I read message after message, profile after profile. I introduce myself a million times. I exchange numbers a million times. I text everything about me and listen to everything about him—five million times over.
I also block user after user after user.
I end up drained. I pour from a cup that’s already empty because I have nothing left to give. I end up bitter—tired of trying, tired of schooling men on how to respect a woman. (Listen, guys—Tim and Faith’s Speak to a Girl is a lesson in respect, and respect is undeniably attractive.)
Yet, I go back again and again. I never trade the boat for a new ride. I never step off the merry-go-round. Maybe the horses are just too pretty to leave behind. Maybe I’m a hypocrite for being drawn to them. Wait, no—I’ve blocked the pretty ones too. I’m deeper than that.
Sometimes I look back and remember the memories I’ve made simply because I once swiped. And so, I continue the ride. Side note: online dating itself isn’t bad. It’s the mindset of those using it that gives it a shaky reputation. For some, it works beautifully, and credit where credit’s due. But the rest of us spin in circles, heads dizzy, hearts tired. Still, I ride because I believe I’m meant for more—meant to find someone who sees the light I carry and makes it a little brighter, even if most of my sunshine comes from myself. I refuse to give up on that hope.
I’ve met good men. I’ve been treated well. Rarely, though. Far and few.
Through this endless search, I’ve learned my soul is often overlooked. My lips get all the attention. My lips.
They seem more important than anything else about me. Messages fixated on them pile up, sexual innuendos making my stomach churn. Most lack substance. They ignore the parts of me that truly soar—the hurricane of my thoughts, the fireworks of my mind. I want to share my stories, my ideas, my life, and hear yours in return. Instead, my inbox is filled with:
I love your lips!
Your lips are so full and sexy.
You’re beautiful.
Your eyes are amazing.
You are gorgeous.
I love your curves.
You are so sexy.
The things I would do to you.
I want to eat you for breakfast.
Let’s have some “fun.”
And it goes on.
These messages chip away at your soul. They make you feel invisible in every meaningful sense. They make you wish someone would notice your spirit, your inner fire, not just the shell. Maybe I’m foolish for not finding these compliments flattering, but I’ve always been more than skin-deep. That’s why I write. I am layered, complex, triple-chocolate cake levels of depth. Words like these leave me hollow because they never touch the core of who I am.
Some will say I’m ungrateful for dismissing a “You’re beautiful” message. Fine. I’m not ungrateful—it’s nice for many—but it doesn’t move me. Anyone can comment on looks. Can anyone learn your soul? When the meaningful words are scarce, you start to wonder: does anyone actually care? Am I lovable? Am I worth the effort? These questions hover over your life like captions on a loop.
Yes, a few men go deeper—and they deserve credit—but they are rare. Not all men are jerks, and not all want only one thing. But the majority? The majority represents everything I’ve been venting about, leaving a soul like mine in desperate need of repair.
Instead of embracing love, I sometimes struggle with the thought that maybe I’m meant to be alone. Maybe I’m not destined to have someone crave my soul—only my eyes and lips. And while I can appreciate my features—they’re a gift from my parents—physical compliments feel hollow in the absence of substance. Some may call me a hypocrite for saying certain men weren’t my type. Fine. I’m human. I’m drawn to appearances, but I must go deeper.
The problem is that many stop at what meets the eye. Physical attraction is necessary, yes, but it’s not enough. Mental attraction is crucial. Pictures tell a story, but they shouldn’t be the whole story. I once loved someone from the inside out, and it taught me everything about life. Substance sustains joy when beauty fades. Empty sexual remarks never will.
Last year, I wrote about my weight and urged readers to compliment souls, not just appearances. I’ll say it again: compliment souls. Physical attraction matters, but it is never enough. I don’t care how cute he is if substance is missing. Cupid’s arrow has no chance.
It’s the inner layers—the thoughts, late-night conversations, inspiration, sparks—that truly matter. The rest is a bonus. Recognize what sets someone’s soul on fire. Make them feel like they matter, because they are more than lips, eyes, or curves. They are living, breathing, radiant beings deserving of more than shallow praise.
