I was sat on the floor of my Hackney flat last Tuesday night, legs crossed, blue nails picking at a loose thread on my hoodie, when the thought properly landed. Not in some big dramatic way. Just quietly, while I was scrolling The Coven group chat and vaping cherry flavour like it was going out of fashion. One of the girls had posted a screenshot of her latest date. The bloke had spent forty minutes explaining why he “doesn’t really do politics” before casually dropping that he thought the latest round of strikes were “a bit much.” She had replied with a laughing emoji and then, in our chat, wrote: “Do I even need this?”
I stared at that message for a long time. Then I laughed out loud, proper snort-laugh that made the neighbour’s dog bark. Because I knew exactly what she meant. And I hated that I knew.
It used to be simple, or at least we pretended it was. You met someone, you fancied them, you gave it a go. Now it feels like every potential boyfriend comes with a full risk assessment attached. Political dealbreakers used to be the big obvious ones. Now they hide in the small talk. The way he talks about “both sides.” The throwaway comment about “woke gone mad.” The sudden silence when you mention the cost of living or why your mate is still waiting for a council house. You catch yourself doing the maths in your head while he’s still talking. Is this worth the energy? Is this going to be another six months of explaining basic things that should not need explaining?
I grew up in Basildon. Proper council-estate roots. Sunday roast at my mum’s every other weekend is still the highlight of my month. She does the gravy from scratch and the Yorkshires come out perfect every time. When I was younger I used to think having a boyfriend was just part of the deal. You found one, you brought him home, mum fed him, everyone nodded like it was sorted. These days I sit at that table and watch my cousins do the same routine and I feel this weird twist in my stomach. Not jealousy. Something closer to second-hand embarrassment. Like watching someone wear last season’s trainers and pretend they still look good.
The manosphere leftovers are everywhere. You can smell them a mile off. The lads who discovered Andrew Tate clips at sixteen and never quite recovered. They’ve rebranded, of course. Now they talk about “traditional values” and “protecting women” while still expecting you to do the emotional heavy lifting. I had one last month who spent the entire first date telling me how much he respected strong women. Then he asked if I was “one of those feminists who hates men.” I smiled, finished my drink, and left. Didn’t even finish the sentence I had planned. Just stood up, said “Take care, hun,” and walked out. The relief hit me on the night bus home. Proper physical relief, like taking off a pair of shoes that had been pinching all day.
Women are choosing peace. That’s the part the internet cannot stand. We are looking at the spreadsheet of what a relationship actually costs (time, energy, patience, the mental load of remembering his mum’s birthday and whether he’s eaten) and deciding the numbers do not add up. Not because we hate men. Because we have finally clocked that the default setting was never designed for us. Late-stage capitalism already takes enough. Why volunteer for extra unpaid labour at home?
I see it in The Coven every week. Someone posts a voice note after a date that started well and then slid sideways. The chat lights up with the same questions. Did he ask about your work or just talk about his? Did he notice when you went quiet? Did he offer to split the bill or wait to see if you’d reach first? Tiny things that used to get waved away as “just how men are.” Now they feel like red flags the size of a double-decker. And once you start seeing them, you cannot unsee them.
The embarrassment creeps in at the strangest moments. You’re at a friend’s birthday and someone asks if you’re seeing anyone. You hesitate. Not because you’re ashamed of being single. Because the thought of explaining the last three attempts makes you tired before you even open your mouth. Or you’re scrolling Instagram and a couple you used to know has posted another “just us” photo and you feel this flicker of… what? Pity? Relief that it isn’t you? Both, probably. The algorithm loves that flicker. It serves you more of the same until you close the app and go make another oat-milk flat white just to have something to do with your hands.
I used to think this feeling was just me being difficult. The chaotic journalist who overthinks everything and rage-tweets at 3 a.m. But it isn’t just me. Talk to women in their late twenties and early thirties and you hear the same thing, worded differently. “I like him, but…” “He’s lovely, except…” “I don’t know if I can be bothered.” The “except” and the “but” have grown teeth. They used to be small. Now they eat the whole sentence.
Part of it is the political weather. Everything is louder. Every opinion is a potential landmine. You cannot have a casual pint without someone bringing up the latest culture-war story. And once that door opens, you find out pretty quickly whether the person across the table sees you as an equal or as a project. I have sat through enough of those conversations to know I would rather be home in my loungewear, feet up, blue nails catching the lamplight, talking to my group chat. The chat does not require translation. It does not need me to soften my edges so someone else can feel comfortable.
There is a loneliness that comes with this, I will not lie. The girlboss years sold us independence like it was a prize. We took it. We ran with it. Now some of us are looking around the empty flat on a Saturday night and wondering if we were conned. The job does not love us back. The rent still goes up. The friends who paired off are busy with their own lives. You can have all the solidarity in the world and still feel the quiet at 11 p.m. when the vape cloud has settled and the only sound is the kettle clicking off.
But here is the thing the think-pieces keep missing. That quiet is not always a problem. Sometimes it is the first honest space you have had in years. No one asking what is for dinner. No one needing you to manage their mood. No one treating your feminist opinions like a quirky hobby they tolerate. Just you, the rug, the hoodie, and the knowledge that you do not have to perform being easy-going for anyone.
The internet, of course, is having a collective meltdown about it. Comment sections fill up with men declaring that women have “gone too far” and that we will “die alone with our cats.” As if cats are the worst fate imaginable. As if dying alone is somehow worse than dying resentful next to someone who never quite saw you. I read those comments and I laugh, then I get angry, then I laugh again. The panic is so transparent. They are not worried about our happiness. They are worried about the supply chain. If enough women decide the product is not worth the price, the whole marketplace wobbles.
I am not saying every man is the problem. That would be lazy and I try not to be lazy, even when I am knackered. There are decent ones. I have met a few. They exist. They do the washing-up without being asked. They vote in a way that does not make you want to leave the table. They listen when you talk about your mum’s Sunday roast and do not immediately turn it into a joke about “women’s work.” Those ones are rare enough that when you find them you feel almost suspicious, like there must be a catch.
The catch is usually time. Or energy. Or the quiet voice that asks, after the goodnight text, whether you actually want this or whether you just do not want to be the one who is still single at the next family gathering. That voice used to win. These days it loses more often than it used to. Peace is looking like a better deal. Not the loud, performative kind. The small, daily kind. The kind where you go to bed when you are tired and wake up without anyone else’s alarm going off.
I still go home for the roast. Mum still asks if I have “met anyone nice.” I still say “not really” and she still gives me that look that means she is not buying it. Then we talk about the gravy and the neighbour’s new extension and whether the council is ever going to fix the potholes. It is comfortable. It is honest. It does not require me to edit myself.
Maybe that is the real shift. We are less willing to edit. The version of ourselves that used to shrink to fit a relationship is getting harder to locate. She used to live in the group chat drafts and the late-night overthinking. Now she is just… quieter. Replaced by the woman who would rather be slightly lonely on her own terms than slightly miserable on someone else’s.
I do not have a neat ending for this. I am still figuring it out myself, one flat white and one vape cloud at a time. Some weeks I miss the idea of it. The company. The shared takeaway. The person who knows how you take your tea. Other weeks I look at my blue nails, my messy bun, my quiet flat, and I think: this is enough. This is more than enough.
The internet can keep losing its mind. We will keep choosing the version of life that does not leave us exhausted before we even start. And if that makes having a boyfriend feel a bit embarrassing in 2026, well. Maybe that says more about the boyfriend than it does about us.
I am going to leave it there. The kettle has boiled again and The Coven is already lighting up with someone else’s date debrief. I should probably go and add my two pence. Or I could just sit here a bit longer, feet on the rug, and enjoy the fact that nobody is waiting for me to explain myself.
Yeah. I think I will sit here a bit longer.