How to navigate dating apps while you’re grieving — from someone who’s been there

iStock; Washington Post illustration

August 23, 2021

Merissa Nathan Gerson

The following piece is excerpted from Merissa Nathan Gerson’s memoir, “Forget Prayers, Bring Cake: A Single Woman’s Guide to Grieving.”

I met a guy on a dating app when my father fell ill. I thought my dad was going to live. So I was like, let’s have some fun, get my mind off things! It was great. I felt confident, comfortable in my skin, and delighted to be delighted. And that was the wholeness of my intention: a delightful night. Nothing more. I was free. It worked.

But when he wanted to see me again, and this time my father was diagnosed as terminally ill, I more so wanted someone to stroke and pet my hair as I cried, face to the pillow, rather than anything remotely sexy. This, for me, was the time to refrain from embracing (an online stranger). I had no desire, not even slightly, for casual encounters. That freedom I felt, the trust: It was gone. My wide-open wings were folded inward for the foreseeable future.

And I was weak. I let him come over despite my deeply knowing I did not want to see him.

Unlike me that night, you can be strong. Trust me.

[ Perspective | Dating in a low-vaccinated area feels nearly impossible]

Call a friend, tell them what’s up, maybe ask someone to come over, and if it’s your style, invite them to sleep over. Get on a Zoom call, reach out for fortification. I get so weak for men’s needs. It’s almost as if I was programmed to meet them and to override my own for the sake of male satisfaction. Hah. Funny that.

No. You don’t have to sate his needs and forfeit your own (whatever gender your dating buddy is, whatever level of dominance). No, the other person isn’t going to disappear or pop or fly off or die if you don’t kiss them when they want a kiss. And if they do ghost you — they were certainly not worth it.

Your needs come first.

Period.

Especially when in the throes of grief and reckoning with great loss.

As this guy came over, as I forked over my personal space, I warned him. I told him, “My dad’s gonna die.” I told him I was emotional.

And when he arrived, I hated having him there. I hated this odd date for what he wasn’t. I hated this casual encounter, and I hated wanting more intimacy from someone I didn’t actually care about. I hated this emblem of connection and care that was a false model. His company made me feel deeply lonely. Deeply isolated.

This was a bad time to Tinder.

I was angry at myself: That space of loss was sacred, and I had breached the boundaries protecting my sorrow. I needed my space for grief to sink in. Instead, I was knotted and tied up with this strange bedfellow.

[ Perspective | 9 steps to becoming the love of your own life]

Dating while grieving is complex, especially if you are grieving the loss of a partner, spouse or other physically or emotionally and romantically intimate loved one; it is something that can lead to major chaos. Or deep comfort. Or both. This is about you. About what you can stomach.

About honoring your fragility, your grief and your vulnerability. And also about honoring your strength. Your desires. Your real needs.

Yes, the first step in a romantic, sexual or casual relationship will have to involve honoring, considering and not shelving your real, live, legitimate needs. This is the refrain of the grief and relationships song.

There is a time to Tinder — sometimes it’s a great escape, a great delight, a time of needed, almost medicinal, connection. Sometimes it even yields real, loving, and joyous relationships.

And, there is a time to refrain from Tindering.

The only one who can know what is best for you is you.

Perhaps the real key to successful Tindering (and all other dating apps under the sun) while grieving is to work to learn and honor your desires. Lead with them. Are you seeking friendship? Are you ashamed of being single? Are you wanting sex to not feel the pain? Are you looking for a boyfriend? A sweetie? A husband? A poly lover? A baby daddy? A mommy? A dominatrix? Intimacy can be emotional, contractual, physical, sexual, platonic, committed, non-committed, all iterations on the full spectrum.

It’s all okay — desire is okay — but for the desirous griever: Parse out your grief. Parse out your intentions.

And honor your desires. One by one. Vulnerability associated with grief and loss makes dating very different terrain.

Respect your longings. Know they are heightened in this time of great distress. And try, if possible, not to chastise yourself for the helpless feeling of wanting sex when it doesn’t appear to be available to you. (For the record: Sex is always available, just a matter of standards and circumstance. You can snap your fingers on any public bus and probably find someone to have their way with you. But what you want, what you need and what your grandmother taught you that haunts you, are all very different things.)

Remember: Grief thrusts you into a different caliber of loneliness, one that is existential, deep, complex and often leaves you desperate for touch, care, distraction, anything but remembering the grave. This is what all self-care practices are mitigating — the distracting pull of wanting to stop the pain, wanting to fill the void, which otherwise blocks our rational view of the situation. The Pentecostal minister roofer from next door is lovely, but is a relationship with him the one you would choose at your happiest? Do you want to be his third wife and bring his seventh child into the world? (If it’s love, okay, it’s love.)

Lonely is when alone feels like a curse.

Alone is when being alone is a relished, delicious time with oneself.

Huge difference.

Merissa Nathan Gerson is a New Orleans-based writer, professor and sex educator.