(A reflection on desire, discernment, and self-trust)

Lately, I’ve been sitting with a conversation I’ve been having with myself.

There’s someone I reconnected with online. We’ve never met in person. We’ve never gone on dates. We simply matched on a dating app and have had conversations here and there. And a part of me wants to be very straightforward with him — to say something like:

I don’t really know what I want right now when it comes to relationships. I do, but I also don’t. I know I want consistency. Someone I can talk to about my day, about life. Someone to connect with. And maybe intimacy from time to time. If it turns into something more, great. If it doesn’t, that’s okay too.

And then I pause.

Because as I sit with that thought, more questions come up.

Why this person?
Why now?

I haven’t had sex in over three years, and suddenly I’m considering offering that level of access to someone I barely know. Someone I haven’t seen. Someone who hasn’t shown much curiosity about me — hasn’t asked many questions, hasn’t tried to really get to know me, hasn’t shown consistent effort.

And that makes me stop.

I ask myself: Is this about desire, or is this about availability?
Is this about connection, or is this about filling a quiet space?

I notice how easy it would be to say, Let’s keep it casual, like I’ve done in the past — hang out, talk, have sex, leave it there. But in those situations, there was at least familiarity. Mutual interest. Time spent. Some kind of foundation.

This feels different.

There’s also a deeper layer to the pause. I realize I don’t actually know him — not his preferences, not his intentions, not his emotional availability. I notice that he’s still active on the app. I don’t know if that means he’s casually dating, emotionally unavailable, already involved, or simply undecided.

What I do know is this: effort hasn’t been present.

And when I imagine offering intimacy in that context, it doesn’t feel aligned. Not because sex is wrong, but because access without curiosity feels empty. Because intimacy without safety doesn’t feel like what I’m actually longing for.

If I’m honest, the idea of putting that offer on the table doesn’t feel empowering. It feels impulsive. Not in a reckless way — but in a way that doesn’t honor the version of me that’s done a lot of healing.

I recognize that sex is a real desire. A real need. One that I can’t fully meet on my own. And I’m not ashamed of that. But I’m also learning that not every desire needs an immediate answer.

Sometimes the growth is in the pause.

Sometimes it’s in choosing not to move forward just because you could.

This moment isn’t about denying myself connection — it’s about trusting myself enough to wait for something that feels mutual, intentional, and grounded. It’s about listening to the discomfort instead of overriding it. About recognizing that wanting closeness doesn’t mean I have to abandon discernment to get it.

For now, I’m choosing to honor my awareness. To let desire exist without rushing it. And to trust that when connection comes, it won’t require me to convince, offer, or compromise myself — it will meet me with the same curiosity and care I’m willing to give.