This essay is based upon my experience dating in the Modern Orthodox world. I’m sharing it anonymously, but not because I’m embarrassed. It’s because I know that being honest about this process can affect how people see you, especially when you’re still dating. I still hope to get married and it really matters how I’m perceived. But I also know I’m not the only one feeling this way. I wrote this to give that feeling a voice.

He’s polite, he’s thoughtful, and he dresses well. He asks questions, makes eye contact, and even thanks the waitress. I’ve been told, more than once, that this is “a great suggestion.” I nod, I laugh, I smile. I play the part well.

But, on the inside, I already know that this isn’t it. There’s no chemistry. No curiosity. No attraction. Nothing keeping me there except the idea instilled in me that I shouldn’t say no too quickly.

This is what it’s like to date in the Modern Orthodox world when you’re in your mid-20s. I wouldn’t call it a crisis. It’s not tragic. It’s just a lot. I remain hopeful on the outside, yet hollow underneath. Everyone tells me this is the most exciting stage of my life, but I’m stuck, waiting for it to feel that way.

I grew up knowing I would get married. It wasn’t a question. But, marriage became more than just something I wanted, it became something that I was expected to build my whole self around.

I was encouraged to be smart, but not so smart that I’d intimidate anyone. To be ambitious, but only until a ring made it someone else’s job to provide. To be attractive, but tzanua. I was taught that the best version of myself was the version that would appeal to someone else.

My last year in high school, I picked a seminary. At the time, I was told to think about my spiritual growth. Since then I’ve wondered if it would’ve been more helpful to pick based on how it would look on my shidduch resume. Everyone knows which seminaries were more “in demand” among certain types of guys. On the other hand, should I really have been making decisions about my religious life at the age of 18 based on boys I hadn’t even met yet?

And the pressure isn’t only found in the big life decisions. I started adjusting myself in tiny, automatic ways, too.

Putting on mascara before running to the supermarket. Doing my hair and nails every single week. Spending my paychecks on nice clothing for Shabbos. I wasn’t dressing for myself. I was dressing for a man that I hadn’t met yet on the off chance that he might see me in shul or the aisles of Cedar Market.

That’s what I was taught: not directly, not cruelly, but consistently. My job was to prepare. To position myself. To stay ready. Because my life wouldn’t begin until he arrived. I was told that if I did everything right, things would move forward. If I looked the part, acted the part, and believed in the system, I’d be set up with the right boys. I just had to trust the process.

But the process rarely feels trustworthy.

I’ve gone on dates I didn’t want to go on, because I was told not to be too picky. Because I didn’t want to be the girl who says no too often. Because, as everyone seems to say, “You never know.”

In the beginning of this process, the questions were simple. “Did you connect?” “Did you have fun?” “Does he make you laugh?” It felt okay to want to enjoy the process.

Now the questions are different. “Are your standards too high?” “Have you given him enough of a chance?” I am constantly reminded that attraction grows. “Is there anyone you said no to that you want to revisit?” It’s asked gently, like it’s a helpful suggestion. But what it really means is maybe you messed up. Maybe your “no” wasn’t valid. Maybe you should’ve settled, and maybe you still can.

There’s a societal silence around the kind of disappointment that piles up quietly. We prefer to talk about the big stories: the engagements, the heartbreaks, and the crazy red flags. But most of it isn’t dramatic, it’s just small, slow letdowns. Hope that quietly leaves you. Another date that goes nowhere. Another reminder that the process is moving, but you’re not.

What I used to look for with optimism, I now search for with self-doubt. I no longer ask, “Do I like him?” Instead I ask, “Do I think I can make this work?”

That shift isn’t dramatic. The community isn’t excited to talk about it. But it’s heartbreaking in its own quiet way. Because somewhere along my journey, I stopped looking forward to dating and started bracing for it. So I scroll through old names. I wonder if I gave up too soon. I wonder if I even know what I’m doing. I wonder if when people refer to “working on yourself” they really mean learning how to want less.

People mean well. They say it with warmth, with hope, with a smile: “Soon by you.” It’s meant to be a blessing. A wish. A reminder that you’re still in the running. But what it often feels like is a reminder that I haven’t arrived.

“Soon by you” turns my life into a waiting room. It tells me my life is about to start but it hasn’t yet. It shows up everywhere. At weddings, where I’m hugged a little tighter. At Shabbos tables, where I’m seated between couples and toddlers. In passing conversations with neighbors or family members that I haven’t seen in months. “Any news?”

It’s strange, sometimes, to watch the way marriage reshapes how people are treated. I have a younger sibling who’s married and still in college, fully supported by my parents. Meanwhile, I work full-time, pay my own rent, and manage my life independently. And yet, at family events they are adults. I’m still a child. Because they have a home of their own, and I’m still attached to the one I came from.

In our community, so much is built around the family unit. Shul. Simchas. Meals. Holidays. There’s always a table, but rarely a seat that feels like mine. I’m either the extra, the guest or the concern. Usually all three. I’m not treated like someone with a full life. I’m treated like someone who’s almost a person. A story waiting for a climax.

For the last few years I’ve built timelines in my head. “If I meet someone now, I could be engaged by Rosh Hashanah.” Or, “If we started dating in the summer, I won’t go single to my cousin’s wedding in October.” But these aren’t dreams. They’re strategies to make the waiting feel like momentum.

Dating is exhausting. It’s not always dramatic but it’s constant. The prep, the conversations, the logistics, and the emotional whiplash between hope and letdown.

Sometimes I need a break. But girls aren’t supposed to take any breaks. Not unless we’ve had a breakdown, or a big public breakup. Otherwise, you are wasting time.

If I say no too often, I start to worry that people will stop suggesting anyone at all. So I go on the date. Even when I’m tired. Even when I can tell from the resume or the initial phone call that it’s not a good fit. Even when I haven’t had time to recharge from the last one. Because I don’t want to disappear from the spreadsheets. I don’t want to be the girl who’s not putting in the hishtadlut. I don’t want to look like I’ve given up. The system doesn’t ask how I’m doing. It just asks if I’m still trying.

I still hope. But I’ve been doing my best to stop treating this part of my life like it’s a prelude. I don’t know when, or if, the story will shift into a different chapter. I don’t know when I’ll meet the right guy for me. But I do know this: I’m not living on hold.

The phenomenon where single women in our community can feel or be perceived as ‘not quite whole is difficult for me. It isn’t cruel or intentional. It’s just baked in. And it leaves so many feeling like we have to work harder just to be seen as full people.

But I don’t need a spouse to prove I’m building a life. I’m living now. I may get married or I may not. But I’m not holding my life in suspense anymore. And I won’t treat myself like I haven’t yet started.

I know that something needs to shift, not just in me, but around me. I don’t know exactly what it is, but we can’t keep telling women to adapt to the system. At some point, the system itself has to be rethought.

In the meantime, iy”H, soon by me.