Something to Talk About
Or, #30: “Don’t gossip about him.”
I’m back! At the beginning of April, I put 129 on hiatus so that I could focus on other projects and personal endeavors (see below). Fair warning: there are no grand list-item activities in this essay. Calm down! I’ll be back in full force in June with an adventure, but this piece is largely about easing back in.
Since my last post, there have been quite a few new friends to 129. Welcome! Whether you found this from my one viral note (#fame), my recent story for Defector (the bowling family history no one knew they needed), or because my parents met you in line at the grocery store, it’s great to have you.
Hope you’re ready, because shit’s about to get personal.
I recently started dating again. This came after a self-imposed romantic hiatus that began, roughly, in January 2025. Lore alert: At the end of last year, I experienced a devastating personal loss. No one died, and no one broke my heart, yet the grief felt akin to both. Without getting too into the weeds, something I had spent years fighting for fell apart, and there was little to no hope it would come back to life. I had put myself on the line and in the public eye for this, swallowed the bitter pills of hope and hurt, led by the belief that eventually, it would all be worth it.
I’m not sure it was.
Ironically, what I thought was the end turned out to be a road bump, and the project would be resurrected four months later, but I didn’t know that in January. What I knew then was that nothing made sense, I was questioning everything, and I needed peace.
So I did what any self-respecting zillenial with $220 and an existential crisis would do: I went on a silent retreat. The three-day excursion was deep in the Catskills at a Buddhist monastery I’d never heard of. I signed up sight unseen, with little to no information, and the fear that I may be walking into a cult. But the reward seemed worth the risk: I was sold by the promise of three meals a day, woods to cry in, and a gut feeling that going was the right decision.
The retreat turned out to be exactly what the doctor ordered. I returned to Brooklyn with a clear head and open eyes, ready to take back the parts of myself I’d so easily given away, eager to focus on the things within my control.
There’s so much more I could say about the silent retreat, and I will—but that’s another essay for another time. Especially because, as I’m sure you’re all wondering, this is supposed to be list item #30. “Don’t gossip about him.” So, while I could pretend this essay is about Buddhist anti-gossip doctrine... it’s really about dating.
The most immediate outcome of the retreat was the resolve to stop searching; to instead simply follow the path wherever it may lead.
But this new outlook, though life-changing, felt counterintuitive and in direct opposition to one of the driving forces in my life (and this Substack): the pursuit of my person. By nature, to date is to be in a constant state of searching. You’re looking for the big one at every coffee shop and house party, on apps and in transit, through friends and via work. It’s exhilarating and exhausting, and it’s not something you can do well if you’re trying to focus on yourself.
So I decided in January that I should spend a few months just really, truly, on me. If someone came up in the wild, I didn’t deny them, but I did consciously put the practice of dating on the back burner. I’m both sad and happy to admit that what transpired were some of the most productive, cathartic, and joyful months of my life. I trained for (and ran!) a half marathon. I had adventures all over the city with my best friends. I kept my head down, focused on my career, and emerged, for the first time, able to say I am making a living as a writer (for the moment, anyway).
I spent the winter and early spring cultivating a relationship with a person I’d never taken the time to get to know and appreciate…myself.
It turns out I’m a total badass.
It’s not like this was the first break I’d taken from dating, but this was the first period where I’d intentionally chosen to put my needs above the pressure to find my person. I’d never before felt so comfortable not wanting something. I was like a disaster-ravaged forest, but instead of immediately replanting seeds and clearing brush, I gave myself permission to heal. Both body and brain could breathe and sit in what was broken before starting to rebuild.
And then, in mid-March, the ground felt healthy again; it was ready for new growth. The career chips I’d meticulously laid fell into place. Oddly, I was busier than ever, yet for the first time in a long time, I had time to spare. Things were quiet. I was bored.
It was time to start dating again.
It was equal parts exciting and terrifying as I re-downloaded the Hinge app. After running the gamut of how to meet romantic and platonic partners, I have reluctantly come to admit that Hinge (and apps in general) are quite useful tools. Sure, you’re fucked by an algorithim and fighting against a paywall, but it’s an easy way into the wild. The steps are simple. All you have to do is swipe.
Lining up as many dates as the cal would permit, I was sure of two things: I was ready to get back out there, and I was not ready to get hurt. I’d spent the winter working to become someone who was self-actualized, confident, and happy; I refused to derail that progress with a whirlwind that'd wreck me all the way to next Tuesday. I would date, but cautiously. Plus, with a plethora of important deadlines before July, I really didn’t have a week to lose to heartbreak.
So, an adjustment was made to the above: It was time to start dating again, but only casually until mid-June 2025.
The thing is, I don’t have a casual bone in my body. I attach like a koala. So I thought this might be a good exercise — to date with no stakes, only to have fun and fill the time. Of course, if the right person comes along and sweeps me off my feet, I’ll entertain something more. But if they don’t? If it’s just some guy who, for example, not from personal experience or anything, happens to get permanently banned from the Hinge app the day after you go on a date? That’s totally fine, because it’s not yet mid-June 2025. In fact, it’s actually ideal.
It’s something to talk about. (Cue: Bonnie Raitt’s Something to Talk About)
**Before I proceed, I’d like to make clear that I love the Bechdel test. I think it’s important that we, as a society, discuss more than the people we’re dating and kissing. Science, politics, humanities, The White Lotus, climate change, cooking, conspiracy theories. These are all topics of conversation everyone should engage in from time to time.
But also, it’s really fun to talk about dating. It just is! There is no better feeling than getting home and sending a giddy voice memo to your group chats, giving a play-by-play so specific the NFL should consider hiring you for post-game recaps. Or to sit curled up on a couch with a roommate, rehashing the cringeworthy details of the guy who gave a goodbye kiss outside your apartment while a delivery driver gawked. It’s fun to be invested in the romantic lives of your friends, to show up to a dinner party and have a salacious story to share.
That said, when I think about #30. “Don’t Gossip About Him,” I understand and agree with parts of this item. There is a line. You have to consider what you’d be okay with being shared if the tables were turned; intimacy is lost if you give it all away for the sake of a good story. It’s largely why I won’t write details about someone I am seeing if it’s even remotely real. There’s a difference between “for the plot” and for the person, and we are all smart enough to know what it is.
But god, isn’t it fun to sit at brunch and audibly gasp as your best friend recounts the outrageous thing their date did the night before? The collective scream, the genuine awe, the girlish glee…it’s what it’s all about.
Only casually dating until mid-June 2025 is, quite frankly, some of the most fun I’ve ever had as an adult. The stakes are lower. The pressure of “what to say and when” is gone, because does it really matter? If it’s right, it’ll be right, and if not? Okay! It’s not mid-June 2025. I find myself embracing new experiences and being open to the unexpected. If someone is interesting but doesn’t have the traits I want in a long-term partner, so what? It’s just not that serious right now.
There are only a few weeks left—the calendar is coming for me. I don’t know what will happen after mid-June. Maybe I’ll get hurt. Maybe it won’t feel as fun. Maybe it’ll work out. Maybe, maybe, maybe, but no matter what, I’m sure of this: I’ll be looking for love, but I am done searching.
At the beginning of the year, I was a woman undone — like Humpty Dumpty, I had fallen off the wall, unsure how I’d ever put myself together again. (Side note: we need a Humpty Dumpty origin story. I am willing to write it. Who is buying?)
Six months later, I think I can handle whatever is coming. And I’m comforted by the fact that no matter what happens, the good, the bad, the ugly… at least it’s something to talk about.
Ironically, I wrote this piece in the same woods as the silent retreat, a mere 15-minute drive from the Buddhist temple. This time, however, I had absconded upstate for a writer’s retreat. A perfect weekend at Sand Pond with three unbelievable meals cooked daily by
, a glimmering lake, and hours upon hours of uninterrupted writing time. The retreat was hosted by and there aren’t enough words in the world to express how perfect it was.Surrounded by the same tall pines, the same rolling hills, the same glistening water, the same winding roads, it was not lost on me how different this Emily was from the one who escaped to the Catskills in January. And for that, I am grateful.
Beautiful!
Loved this! Such a beautiful reflection — also, there’s truly no better feeling than gossiping over brunch with your friends!