Three weeks ago I started something with someone that ended a couple days ago. I’d describe it as a whirlwind because it swept me off my feet, from a distance, before I even realized what was happening. Everything seemed to blur. My days, my routines, my sense of self. It was both exciting and unnerving. Plans formed fast, and what I imagined to be feelings formed even faster—before I had a real sense of who I was even feeling them for.
We hadn’t met in person yet—he was in Mexico City when we matched on a global dating app, going between there and Oakland, doing a long-term motorcycle trip. Long distance doesn’t really bother me as long as there’s a clear plan to meet. So when our first FaceTime lasted five hours and those calls continued every day after, I was there for it. I like consistency and I want to connect with someone who’s excited about me. So while it felt like a lot, in the moment I liked it.
One conversation stuck with me more than the others. He didn’t want biological children. It was a non-negotiable for him, but later on he shared that he was open to adoption. I hadn’t thought much about it so intently. I had always just figured the subject of kids would work itself out, but his stance on it brought me inward. It was an uncomfortable kind of clarity—the kind that only shows up when someone else forces the question. I ultimately landed on wanting to be with someone who’s open to all the options. But the more interesting thing wasn’t what I decided. It was that I needed the pressure of someone else’s certainty to figure out my own.
After a couple of FaceTimes he invited me to San Francisco, and I agreed. The night before the trip my intuition was telling me not to go, but instead of canceling completely I told him I wanted to shorten my time out there. He was fine with that. The next morning I got on the plane and flew over. Once I was there, he’d put thought and time into planning out activities and had what felt like a vision for the trip—which was kind, but it wasn’t what I had asked for. I had told him I didn’t want a packed schedule. I wanted to just hang and see what we actually felt like doing in the moment. The one night we had with no plans turned out to be the best part—a dive bar, playing in a pool tournament, pizza at the end of the night. Easy fun. But most of the short visit felt like a performance of a relationship we hadn’t built yet. I could feel myself playing a part I hadn’t agreed to yet.
I left after 24 hours and went to LA to visit my brother and sister-in-law. It felt good to see them and have the space to just be. If I’m being honest with myself, I felt relieved and guilty at the same time. I told myself that leaving wasn’t a big deal. This was just the beginning after all. We were starting to learn about each other and seeing if we liked each other. But I also knew I was avoiding something. Maybe the intimacy of staying. Maybe finding out whether the connection held in person. Maybe him. Or maybe I was afraid of ignoring my intuition. Of saying yes to something I wasn’t sure I was fully interested in pursuing. Of slowly stepping away from myself just to keep momentum going. One thing I do know for sure, it felt like he wanted a certainty about us that I couldn’t offer that quickly.
A few days later, after some space, I recognized something in him that I’ve seen in a past version of myself. This feeling of wanting to commit to something before commitment actually makes sense. Fast-forwarding through the beginning. Creating that kind of whirlwind can feel disorienting for one or both people—usually both, by the end of it.
It feels like a fear that something has to happen right now because the window is narrowing. For me, it can look like over-communicating, saying yes to things I don’t actually want to say yes to, moving too fast because I’m afraid the connection might disappear. It’s grasping for certainty rather than settling into what’s actually happening. One word for it is desperation, and acting from that place creates the opposite of what we actually want. By reaching for something so desperately, you inadvertently push it away.
This isn’t limited to romantic relationships. In work, it can look like settling for conditions that aren’t quite right just to feel some solid ground. In a spiritual sense, it looks like searching for something to fill a void instead of sitting with it, trusting yourself, letting things unfold.
I’ve deliberately worked on centering myself over the past couple of years so that I choose to move towards people and circumstances because they feel right for me, not out of urgency. So the pattern is quieter now, but quieter isn’t gone. And what unsettles me most isn’t that he was moving too fast—it’s that I was right there with him, telling myself I wasn’t. I matched the pace. I got on the plane. I said yes to the trip even though my intuition was saying no twelve hours earlier.
He mentioned that he shows care through effort and planning, and said that I need someone who will give me space and spontaneity. I don’t think I want one or the other. I want all of it in a way that makes sense for both myself and the guy I’m with. Book the flight. Have a few dinner options in mind. Let’s handle the logistics that make it possible to be together. That kind of effort is important to me. What I don’t want is for the relationship itself to become another thing to plan around. I want the connection to have room to be what it is, without a packed itinerary or specific vision standing in as a substitute for actual closeness.
Spontaneity, for me, isn’t about being careless or unintentional. It’s about staying open. It’s trusting that two people who genuinely like each other don’t need a schedule full of activities and plans to prove it. The best moment of that entire trip was a dive bar we went to with no plan. That’s what I want more of. Exploration and space where something real has a chance to show up and develop in its own time.
I want to be with someone who moves at a pace that feels grounded and steady. Not slow out of avoidance, but slow because we’re actually paying attention to how we feel. Letting things unfold without forcing them into a specific shape before they’re ready. Intentional and open at the same time. I know that’s possible. The fact that I can see the pattern now — not in him but in myself — means I’m closer to it than I was three weeks ago.
