One Woman's Quest To Go Boysober

Phase I. Hungover

I went through a brutal breakup last summer that was the culmination of an even more brutal relationship. It was the kind of intoxicating, devastating love you only get once in your life because the universe knows you won’t survive it again.

When I say things were bad post-breakup I mean they were bad bad. I surpassed my daily writing goals with all the letters I never sent him. I woke up each morning at 7 AM and went on a walk to bypass crying—which is to say it was so bad I got in touch with nature. I retired the word “darling” from my vocabulary because that’s what he used to call me. I gave up songs that sounded like the shape of his face and my favorite cafe because it felt like exposure therapy going anywhere I had once heard his voice, and, finally, I gave up the concept of love altogether.

That summer, I turned 28 and looked back on my ten years of “adulthood.” In the rearview mirror were the relationships that I had either crashed or that had simply broken down. I did the math and realized that over the course of 10 years, I had only been truly single for a total of 10 months.

The question is never “Where’d the time go?” but rather, “To whom?” I could draw you diagrams of their palms and describe in detail how the napes of their necks smell after a shower. I’m an expert on the people who have hurt me. I’ve given them the time, energy, and care I’d never dare consider myself worthy of.

My resentment is excruciating. I often wonder what I could’ve made of myself in these past ten years had I saved my brain space. I yearn for that version of me and wonder what she’s like—if she’s lighter than me, more fulfilled. I’d like to think there can be more to my life, more to me, than just romance.

Clearly, I had been binging relationships. Surely, I needed a detox. So, I swore off dating, romance, and men for an entire year. Casual or serious, online or IRL—I was closing up shop to see what was buried under all these layers woven by male validation. I told everyone it was my year of rest and relaxation.

A few months after I took this oath, I saw a comedian named Hope Woodard talk about her own efforts to decenter men. She said aloud what I have been whispering to myself: “I don't know who I am without romance.” She claimed she had gone boysober: no dates, no exes, no situationships.

I realized that I had gone boysober too.

Phase II. Boysober

Months went by, and the breakup hangover started to dissolve. I did everything you are supposed to do: reconnected with old friends, grabbed coffee with new friends, went to therapy, worked out, refreshed my space. I was writing more than ever before (not angry, unsent letters this time). My love life was harrowing, my healing immaculate. And eventually, it worked. My life suddenly felt full.

Meanwhile, I politely declined friends who wanted to set me up with their friends. I never downloaded “the apps.” I avoided a couple of perfectly nice guys who courted me in my DMs. But the thing I hadn’t accounted for, that I never imagined, was that someone would ask me out in the wild—yes, the old-fashioned way, like in a movie or an alternate mutant universe. And then it happened twice in one week, and I was sure our universe was testing my resolve.

While debriefing with a friend, I explained I couldn’t possibly say yes—I had seven boysober months to go! In eleven words, she gently called me on my bullshit, “Aisha… at the end of the day, this is a bit.”

I knew that although I was healing, I was also hiding. Beneath all my jokes that “I was closed for business” was my certainty that I had nothing good left to offer. That I was doomed to repeat the wreckage in my rearview mirror. I was living in absolutes because the idea that dating and decentering could coexist hinged on my ability to trust myself—no, thank you!

Phase III. Boy-Curious

So I dragged myself, kicking and screaming, on these dates—and they were fun! They were spontaneous, flirty and actually kinda hot. The world did not end.

I’ve been boycurious for a few months now, and I dare to believe I can have it all; I can decenter and date. I’m also trying to stop feeling so sheepish when I tell people I’m dating now. It’s not a boylapse. I trust myself now to stare dreamily into someone’s eyes without leaving my self-worth to erode in the blindspots. Whatever you want to call this: boysober, decentering men, a year of rest and relaxation—all of it is just an exercise in holding onto myself.

There have been moments that feel romantic in the traditional sense: A man surprised me with tickets to the ballet. I held onto his arm the moment we stepped into Lincoln Center, and the straps on my kitten heels snapped. It's not exactly Cinderella, but I’ll take it.

A few nights later, I was killing time before meeting up with him again. For a second I imagined him canceling on me. I laid in bed looking out at the soft glow of light on the wallpaper I’d installed while boysober. My living room was adorned with flowers left over from a Galentines party. And I knew that if he canceled, I’d be perfectly fine. My life had meaning and romance without him. All those months of decentering had worked. This was the ultimate challenge: letting someone in without letting them take over.

Still, the sweetest development is that I recognize more romance than ever before. Romance camouflaged in all sorts of disguises.

Forty girls dressed in red and pink came to my home to laugh and gossip for Galentine’s Day. The little girl across the street from my mom’s house drops off a drawing early in the morning before my flight as a send-off. I befriended my super, who has lived in our building for 30 years. Now, when I pass him in the stairwell, he smiles, clasps my hand, and says, “Hello, Aisha, Darling, have a wonderful day.” It’s a reminder that love, like energy, isn't destroyed. Eventually, it reappears, looking a little different than how you remembered it. Now I call everyone darling.

For what it’s worth, Ballet Man never bailed…not that it matters, of course.