When I was 16, a breakup felt like death. Not dramatic death—Shakespearean death. I was the Juliet of my own bedroom, sobbing into my stuffed animals, clutching my Nokia phone like it held the secrets to the universe (or at least a good text from a boy who just said, “We need to talk”).
Back then, love meant handwritten letters on crumpled notebook paper, missed calls from the school payphone, and dramatic declarations at recess. It meant feeling like my entire identity hinged on someone else’s attention. He wore black Chuck Taylors. He had a mop of floppy hair. He told me I was “different” (spoiler: I was not). When he dumped me for a girl named Veronica with better bangs, I genuinely thought, Well, that’s it. I’ll never love again. Let me just lie here dramatically in my Hello Kitty pajamas until my tears water the carpet.
Ah, young love. So much intensity. So little perspective.
Fast forward to now—I’m in my 30’s, with a therapist, a French press, and a self-care routine that includes yelling “No, thank you!” at red flags I used to flirt with. I’ve gone from writing angsty journals about boys to semi-sassy, emotionally-healing essays about breakups for wellness magazines. Life, huh?
So, let’s talk about being ghosted as an adult. Or, more accurately, let’s talk about why it doesn’t knock the wind out of me like it used to. Because, girl, when you’ve been through enough of life’s plot twists—period cramps during job interviews, unpaid taxes, the betrayal of low-rise jeans coming back into fashion—you learn to take a disappearing man in stride.
Ghosting Now vs. Then
Teenage me would’ve gone full investigative journalist the moment someone stopped texting me back. I would’ve refreshed my inbox like a woman waiting for medical test results. I would’ve memorized his last seen status, read his tweets like tea leaves, and made up wild stories in my head like, maybe he got hit by a bus. Or maybe he lost his phone. Or maybe he got amnesia and forgot how to love.
Adult-me? I sip my oat milk latte and go, “Welp, Guess he’s not The One. Moving On.”
That’s not to say it doesn’t sting. It does. Rejection always does—even when you weren’t sure you liked him all that much to begin with. But the difference now is that I know my worth isn’t up for debate just because someone vanished like a sock in the dryer.
Dating in Your 30s is Like Trying to Find a Cute Outfit in a Store That Only Sells Beige Sweaters
Here’s the thing no one tells you—dating in your 30s is weird. And kinda tiring. Especially when you’ve done the work. When you’ve healed from your attachment wounds. When you’ve read the books and listened to the podcasts, you delete Tinder, redownload Tinder, and then delete it again.
You walk into dates now with a clear idea of what you want—but instead, you meet someone who says they’re “emotionally available” and then ghosts you after three dates and a conversation about your childhood trauma. Cute!
I once went on a date with a man who said he liked “women who speak their mind,” and then—kaboom—never texted back after I… spoke my mind.
Sometimes, I wonder… is dating harder now because we’re older, or because we actually know ourselves now?
Because teenage me would’ve shape-shifted into someone likable. She would’ve laughed a little too hard at unfunny jokes, pretended to love The Killers (I didn’t), and shrunk herself into something easy to love.
Now? I TAKE UP SPACE. I say what I mean. I know that liking Taylor Swift and being emotionally intelligent are not mutually exclusive. And I no longer accept the bare minimum from someone just because they have a skincare routine and a driver’s license.
Ghosting Doesn’t Hurt Because I Don’t Disappear With Them Anymore
When we are young, we tie our self-worth to whether or not someone wants us. We lose a guy, and we think we’ve lost ourselves. But now? Now, I’ve built a life I actually like. An aesthetic apartment with all my favorite colors in it. A shih tzu who has more attitude than me and an American bully who doesn’t bully me—and most importantly… doesn’t ghost me. Friends who answer my 3 AM “Why did he leave?” texts with memes and love and Postmates.
So when someone disappears—when he goes full Casper the Emotionally Immature Ghost—I don’t question my entire being. I don’t spiral. I just take a deep breath and return to myself. And maybe to my group chat. And maybe to a bottle of wine and some guilty pleasure romcoms (hello, How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days).
It’s Okay to be Tired. But Don’t be Jaded
Here’s what I’ll say to you, love; if you’re reading this after getting ghosted—you are not broken. You are not unlovable. You are not too much.
You’re just dating in a world where vulnerability is rare and communication is somehow harder than it’s ever been; despite everyone having a phone in their hand 24/7, it’s not YOU. It’s the culture. It’s the apps. It’s the boys who read one quote about stoicism and decided to never reply to a text again.
Let yourself feel sad. Let yourself cry. EAT THAT ICE CREAM IN YOUR FRIDGE. Write the rage text you’ll never send. But don’t let one disappearing act make you disappear from your own life.
You Are the Constant, Not the Plot Twist
Here’s what I’ve learned… whether you’re sixteen and crying into your diary or thirty-something and rolling your eyes at another “Hey, sorry, I’ve been super busy” text—you are the story. Not the side character. Not the abandoned plot line. YOU.
And you’re still worthy of love. Of real, healthy, present love. Even if it’s not happening right now. Even if it’s not happening the way you thought it would. Even if you’re tired, and swiping left feels more exhausting than leg day.
In the meantime, you have YOU. And let me tell you, she’s pretty great.
Final Thoughts From the Girl Who’s Still Learning
So maybe next time you get ghosted, instead of asking what’s wrong with you, ask what’s with someone who thinks silence is easier than honesty. Then pour yourself a drink, send a meme to your best friend, and remind yourself that being rejected by someone else does not mean rejecting yourself.
And when you’re ready, when you’ve deleted the number and cleared the playlist, go outside. Breathe. Buy yourself flowers—not because Miley said so, but because you can. Because you want to. Because you’re still here.
And that, my darling, is the kind of love story that doesn’t need to be ghost written.
Love, laughs, and leftover feelings,
Kaz