For many young adults juggling a busy academic or professional schedule, the search for intimacy is often outsourced to dating apps, which may seem like a convenient alternative, as deadlines, commuting, and maintaining a social life can already be very draining. However, what these platforms often end up providing are only short-lived and superficial connections. The pattern is familiar: scrolling through profiles, sighing with disappointment at the same old answers that people have written on their profile prompts, and ultimately closing the app. Occasionally, this pattern manages to lead to a situationship that ends up being just emotionally intimate enough to keep one involved, but not quite so to ensure commitment or any stability, for that matter. At other times, the conversations reach a dead end after matching with somebody who may be mildly interesting, or there is radio silence from the other side after a date has been planned. These experiences often prompt the question: Would it feel any different if we were still navigating most of our romantic and intimate lives in offline spaces, rather than in a digital world with curated personas and an illusion of endless choices?

Currently, the world is one where convenience takes centre-stage, sometimes at the cost of spontaneity and connection. We have apps on our phones that deliver groceries in minutes, AI that convinces us we can outsource something as human as thinking, and social media that provides an illusion of connection and community. Things like taking a walk, having intellectual debates, and chatting over coffee now need to be scheduled – it is challenging to engage in activities that were once a regular part of our lives, even once a month.

People are becoming lonelier, and their desire for connection, stronger. Yet vulnerability and honesty, which remain central to genuine connections, are extremely scary in online spaces with strangers. Therefore, we curate versions of ourselves in digital spaces that emphasise and exaggerate our positive traits, while pushing our flaws under the carpet. The paradox, however, is that even the most superficial connections have the potential to demand that we confront our real selves. What do we do then? Well, the easiest and most socially-sanctioned response seems to be withdrawal. This creates a vicious cycle – we feel lonely, we reach out, we are scared things are getting too real too soon, and we withdraw, only to end up feeling lonely again. What doesn’t help this cycle is the illusion of choice online – we think we don’t miss out on anything significant if we let one connection go, as there are many others to fill that void with. And therefore, we keep striving for ‘better’. The problem is that our standards for ‘better’ are often superficial; when a person meets those superficial standards, we convince ourselves that they are the right person for us, even if the relationship might be dysfunctional. These standards and the illusion of choice are mostly maintained by the algorithm – it shapes our understanding of what the ‘ideal’ partner should look like and rewards constant engagement.

These experiences of digital intimacy are also gendered. The very thought of being vulnerable online or being lenient with standards of perfection for intimacy or partnership is arguably scarier for women and gender and sexual minorities (GSM) than it is for men. There is a greater risk of sexual violence, online harassment and bullying, and physical harm for women and GSM groups. Furthermore, the discontent with online dating does not have to be restricted to explicit harm – women, especially, are expected to be okay with sexist jokes and straight men wanting their potential partners to ‘not take themselves too seriously’; if they don’t find these jokes funny, they are assumed to not have ‘a sense of humour’ or simply termed a ‘prude’.

A 2022 survey conducted by Tinder in Hyderabad revealed that 65% of people do not know how to navigate consent while dating, perceiving it as something that ‘kills the mood’. Sexual interest may be mistaken for consent, while establishing boundaries can be perceived as ‘inconvenient’. Additionally, there is often a degree of moral policing that comes into play when women engage in the expression and exploration of their sexuality online, through platforms like dating apps. When marginalised caste or class identities intersect with one’s gender and sexual identity, experiences of violence and abuse are aggravated. Therefore, women fear being morally evaluated for ‘transgressing’ social norms and stay silent, fearing disapproval of family and society. This often causes under-reporting of online dating violence cases, making it difficult to understand how such experiences may impact women’s wellbeing.

Perhaps the question that should be asked is whether these experiences are any different from what we witness in offline spaces? Can people not withdraw the moment any relationship requires them to be vulnerable? Is the desire for intimacy not constantly reshaped by the desire to find a ‘better’ partner for oneself? Are women not unsafe in public spaces, streets, and romantic relationships? Do digital platforms and online spaces, which claim to be more accessible and inclusive, only enable such behaviour through anonymity and a lack of accountability? The answer to all these questions is likely to be in the affirmative. However, digital platforms may also be a way for people with limited social circles and restrictions on social mobility to find romance and intimacy. This creates a safer space to be intimate, which might not be a realistic alternative in offline spaces. The anonymity offered on these platforms can also help people engage in intimacy more cautiously – using pseudonyms to conceal one’s identity or exploring one’s sexuality more freely may be privileges that are not always offered in face-to-face settings. The issue, then, does not lie in the digital world existing as an option for intimacy, but in how it exists. Genuine connection is replaced with short-lived engagement and response, withdrawal and lack of accountability are perceived as self-care, and people are constructed as products to be marketed with their best qualities highlighted and their flaws hidden. There is no simplistic solution to this, but a first step could be accountability.

Without accountability, we are heading towards becoming a generation marked by loneliness, craving for human connections without knowing how to make them. Given that dating apps are profit-making enterprises for their creators, not many of them are governed by ethical standards. What we can do on our part is to look for those few platforms that have policies that emphasise safety, privacy, consent, transparency and other values that align with our own, and use them in a responsible manner. At the end of the day, a successful attempt to find intimacy often rests on the elements that intimacy actually requires – honesty, openness, and an ability to be vulnerable.

Cover image by Zulfugar Karimov on Unsplash