I've never been on a dating app since being recognisable. So I

In the clear confession of Aimee Lou Wood—“I’ve never been on a dating app since being recognisable… I wouldn’t know what that’s like… if I’m really honest, I would probably be quite anxious about that”—we hear a young artist measuring the distance between the private heart and the public gaze. The words are simple, but they ring like a bell in a crowded square: fame multiplies eyes; eyes change behavior; and where love seeks shelter, spectacle creates weather. The sentence is not a judgment on technology; it is a boundary line drawn with a trembling but deliberate hand.

The ancients knew that sacred things require veils. Courtship once moved by letters and trusted messengers, guarded by the privacy of households and the pacing of seasons. A dating app promises swiftness, breadth, and choice; yet for the recognisable, it can become a lantern that attracts not only moths but hawks. To admit, “I would be anxious,” is not frailty; it is wisdom. The heart must breathe before it can bond, and anonymity is oxygen in the first hours of love.

Mark the humility in “if I’m really honest.” It acknowledges the split within modern selves: the performer and the person, the avatar and the inward voice. The public profile tempts us to polish our edges until we no longer fit our own grip. For those who are recognisable, this temptation is doubled: they are already a story in other people’s mouths, already an image that strangers edit. To bring that image onto a dating app is to place a mirror in front of a mirror; reflections multiply while reality thins.

Consider a lived example from the galleries of fame. Greta Garbo, hunted by lenses, chose seclusion not because she despised affection, but because she knew that attention can bruise intimacy. She kept the doorway to her private life narrow, and thereby preserved its temperature. Or think of Audrey Hepburn, who let the world treasure her work while fiercely guarding the hearth of her relationships. Their refusal to let curiosity set the terms was not disdain; it was stewardship. So too here: Wood’s boundary is a form of care—for herself and for any future bond that might wither under fluorescent scrutiny.

There is also a quieter, universal reading. Even without celebrity, many feel anxious within the endless aisle of swipes. The marketplace shape of desire—ratings, options, performative wit—can make the soul feel purchasable. What Wood names is the human need to be met as a person before being consumed as content. Privacy is not secrecy; it is the climate in which trust can germinate. When the first meeting is already public, when screenshots can outlive sincerity, beginnings become brittle.

From this, let a lesson be carried to the young and the weathered alike: choose a medium that protects your identity and honors your pace. Love is a craft before it is a post. If a tool—be it a dating app or a party or a platform—erodes your ability to listen, to be awkward, to change your mind without a chorus watching, then it is the wrong tool for you right now. The brave act is not always entry; sometimes it is abstention until a truer setting can be found.

Let the counsel be practical. (1) Build a small circle of introducers—friends who know your values and can arrange low-stakes meetings away from the public eye. (2) If you do use tools, use ones that allow strong filters: first names only, no geotags, no cross-linked fame; keep the privacy scaffolding high. (3) Pace reveals character: prefer voice or in-person conversation over endless messaging; let silence and presence, not metrics, guide you. (4) Name your boundary out loud—“I’m honestly a bit anxious about exposure”—and watch who respects it; the right person will help guard the gate. (5) Keep a refuge that is not digitized—a walk, a kitchen table, a bench under trees—so that when the world grows loud, the heart remembers its native volume.

At last, hear the old wisdom in Wood’s gentle refusal: not all roads are for every traveler, and not every season asks for speed. If your soul needs shade, do not apologize for seeking it. If your beginnings require privacy, do not trade them for applause. For love that lasts is often love that learned to start in quiet—protected from the winds of spectacle—until it was strong enough to step into the sun on its own terms.