I was nodding along to Liam's travel stories - something about a hostel in Bangkok where the ceiling fan nearly took his head off - when he stopped mid-sentence and asked, "You get it, right?"
My stomach didn't knot. It just fell. Fell through the floor of that overpriced pizza place and kept going. Because I didn't get it. Not even close. My "travel" was stuffing myself into a minivan with my mom and three siblings every summer to visit our relatives in Dayton, Ohio. Not backpacking through places that gave him "stories." I'd been performing interest for twenty minutes straight, laughing at jokes that felt rehearsed, trying to look like someone who belonged in his world of "old souls" and "seen things."
The urge to lie hit me like a hot flash. I could've invented Thailand. Could've stretched that weekend in Montreal into a whole backpacking saga. But instead I heard myself say, "Actually, my travel's been pretty limited. What kind of things have you seen that made an impact?"
The silence that followed wasn't contemplative. It was evaluative. He blinked. Recalibrated. "Oh. Well, you know." And just like that, the connection he'd been building collapsed. I wasn't the audience he wanted. But here's what I realized later, driving home alone: he wasn't the person I wanted either. I'd been so busy trying to pass his test that I forgot to ask if I even wanted the job.
We treat dating like a performance review where we're always on the verge of being fired. I spent years doing this - treating every date like I had to prove my worthiness. Liam's question wasn't really about travel; it was a screening question. And my instinct was to pass the test rather than ask myself if I even wanted the job.
The 'Earned Affection' Gambit looks like this: you show up with your best foot forward, but not your real foot. You become a highlight reel. You laugh at jokes that aren't funny. You nod sagely at stories you don't connect with. You pretend to love hiking because his profile mentioned it, even though you get winded walking up stairs. I once spent three months dating a guy who was obsessed with craft beer. I learned the difference between an IPA and a lager. I visited breweries. I pretended to care about hop profiles. Why? Because I thought that's what you did to earn someone's interest.
It seems right because our entire culture tells us romance is something you win. Movies show grand gestures. Songs are about relentless pursuit. Our friends say "just give him a chance" when we express doubt. We're taught that attraction grows through effort, that compatibility is built through shared experiences you have to first manufacture. So we manufacture. We perform. We audition.
But here's the thing about performing: it's exhausting. And it's not real. The person on that date with Liam wasn't the real me - it was the me I thought he wanted. The me who had 'seen things.' The me who could keep up. And that me was a fucking actor.
The consequences of this approach are brutal. First, you attract people who fall for your performance, not you. Then you're trapped - either keep performing forever (exhausting) or reveal the real you and risk them pulling away. I watched this happen to my friend Sarah. She presented herself as this ultra-outdoorsy, adventurous person to a guy she liked. He fell for that version. Two years later, she was miserable dragging herself up mountains every weekend, resentful and trapped in her own lie. The relationship ended because she couldn't maintain the performance, not because they weren't compatible.
Second, you extinguish your own desire. When you're so focused on being what someone else wants, you stop noticing what you want. I didn't realize I didn't actually like Liam until that moment at Pie Town. I'd been so busy trying to be interesting to him that I never asked: is he interesting to me? Does he make me feel seen? The question "You get it, right?" was a red flag - he wanted validation, not connection. But I was too busy performing to notice.
Hidden costs include: time wasted on people who never really saw you, emotional burnout from constant self-monitoring, and the slow erosion of your self-trust. You stop knowing what you actually like because you've overridden your instincts so many times. I once caught myself pretending to like a movie I hated, and realized I couldn't remember the last time I'd been honest about a preference on a date.
There's also the opportunity cost - every hour spent performing for the wrong person is an hour you're not available for the right one. I calculated once that I'd spent nearly 400 hours in one year on dates with people I wasn't even sure I liked. That's ten full work weeks. Gone.
What separates the 'Earned Affection' Gambit from the 'Impact & Filter' Protocol is simple: instead of trying to impress, you're trying to assess. The goal shifts from "Does he like me?" to "Do I like him, and does he respond well to the real me?"
The protocol works like this: you show up as yourself from minute one. Not your polished, performative self - your actual self. You express real opinions. You share genuine interests. You ask questions that matter to you. And critically, you watch how he responds. Does he lean in? Does he get curious? Does he share back? Or does he seem bored, confused, or disappointed?
When Liam said, "You get it, right?" the 'Impact & Filter' response would have been: "Actually, my travel has been pretty limited to family visits. What kind of 'things' have you seen that made an impact on you?" This does two things: it's honest (I'm not pretending to be worldly), and it tests his reaction. Does he dismiss my answer? Does he get excited about sharing? Does he realize his question was a bit elitist?
Here's why it works: authenticity is efficient. It scares away people who aren't a match and attracts people who are. The guy who wants a travel buddy to impress with his stories? He'll lose interest - and thank goodness, because that's not what I want. The guy who wants to connect over real experiences? He'll ask follow-up questions. He'll share his real stories. You'll know within 20 minutes if there's potential, not after 20 dates.
In my current relationship, our second date involved me crying (not proud) about a work disaster. Not because I wanted sympathy, but because I was actually having a bad day and didn't cancel. My partner's response wasn't discomfort or retreat - it was "Tell me more." That's the filter working. That's the impact of realness.
Transitioning from performer to filter requires conscious practice. It feels scary because you're giving up control. You're letting someone see the parts you usually hide. But here's the thing - you're not actually losing control, you're gaining information.
First steps to make the shift:
The shift isn't overnight. I still catch myself performing sometimes, especially when I'm nervous. But now I catch it faster. Last week on a date, I felt myself nodding along to something I didn't care about. I paused and said, "Actually, I'm not sure I follow. Can you explain why that matters to you?" The conversation got real. We connected over the honesty. Or we didn't - and that's fine too.
Remember: you're not a product to be sold. You're a person doing a mutual evaluation. Stop courting. Start screening. Your time - and your sanity - are worth more than a congealed slice of pizza and a performance you never wanted to give.
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