Honestly, I think dating is hard. Period.

In the hush before dawn, when the heart speaks plain and the world has not yet fast-talked us out of our truths, a simple confession rises like incense: “Honestly, I think dating is hard. Period.” Hear the drumbeat of those words. Honestly—as in bare-faced, candle-in-hand, nothing to hide. Dating—the long road where two pilgrims walk together and yet begin as strangers. Hard—not cruel without meaning, but weighty like stone, requiring muscle, breath, and patience. Period—a seal pressed into wax, final and unadorned, as the ancients would end a decree.

Why is dating hard? Because it is the craft of the unseen. We trade in hints and hopes, in gestures and glances, trying to read a soul written in moving water. Each meeting is a small voyage over foggy seas; we steer by stars that shift—mood, timing, fear, and memory. To date is to test one’s courage in little ways: to reveal a scar and not apologize for it; to ask a question that could bless or bruise; to sit in silence without fleeing into cleverness. All this done while the world shouts for speed, spectacle, and certainty.

The elders would nod at Sevyn Streeter’s confession. In their time, matches were brokered by family, temple, or tribe; yet still the marrow of choosing was never simple. Even with scrolls of lineage and chests of dowry, the secret court convened in the hidden chamber of the heart. There, the verdict always cost something—freedom, pride, or a cherished illusion. So it is now. Apps provide corridors, but not courage; profiles display traits, but not tenderness. We can simplify the path, but never the person.

Consider the old tale of Héloïse and Abélard. Their letters, bright as coals, leap centuries to warm our hands. They were not “bad at dating”; they were honestly alive—drawn by intellect and desire, bound by vows and consequence. Every meeting was a negotiation between devotion and duty, every choice a door that closed behind them with a heavy latch. Their love was not easy; it was hard, and the hardness was not a flaw in them, but a measure of the world’s complexity and the soul’s depth. From their fire, we learn that difficulty and dignity often share a border.

Yet “hard” does not mean hopeless. Iron is hard, and precisely for that reason it can be forged. The way is to bring the metal of the self to heat—reflection, honesty, and humility—and then to hammer gently with questions that ring true: What do I value when no one applauds? Where do I bend when I should stand? What wounds do I carry that make me misread kindness? This smithing does not make dating effortless; it makes us worthy partners to bear its weight with grace.

Let us then carve the lesson in cedar: expect the challenge, honor the process, and move with straightforward kindness. Do not curse the terrain for being mountainous—lace your boots. Do not despise the slow ascent—sing as you climb. The very hardness is the gymnasium of love, where patience learns endurance, and joy, when it comes, is clean and well-earned. To deny that dating is hard is to meet a winter without a cloak.

Take these practices and bind them with cord: (1) Begin with a brief self-covenant—three non-negotiable values and three gifts you pledge to offer. (2) In conversation, ask one honest question early—the kind that admits you care about truth more than performance. (3) Pace your hope: set a gentle cadence for contact and let trust grow like roots, not fireworks. (4) Keep a small record after each meeting: what felt alive, what felt strained, where courage visited you. (5) End with honor—if you must part, do so clearly and kindly, so both may keep their dignity for the next road. Thus will you transform the hard work into holy work, and your dating into a pilgrimage where the heart becomes both traveler and home.