“Here goes nothing,” I mutter under my breath, taking a switch of my vodka soda in the parking lot of a dimly lit Mexican restaurant. Ten minutes late and already dreading what’s inside, I know this is probably not the best way to start a date, but here we are. Date number… honestly, I’ve lost count. Let’s call it 100. Or maybe 1,000. It’s a blur of fails.

 I pull down the rearview mirror for one last look. I run my fingers through my hair, which can never quite decide if it is curly or wavy. My eyeliner has the perfect thin wing, shaping my brown eyes. I take another sip of my drink while staring at myself. Vodka soda in the parking lot? Classy. But after a year of disappointments, you learn to take the edge off when and where you can. It is so exhausting to swipe through endless profiles, hold semi-decent conversations, and then realize—on the date—that the guy either photoshopped his entire face or is only interested in finding someone to “Netflix and chill.”

At first, I thought ambition was the key—a guy with dreams, drive, and a plan for his life. But those men? Too busy chasing said dreams to actually text you back or, you know, show up emotionally.

So, I shifted gears—focused on guys who seemed attentive. Spoiler alert: Attention quickly morphed into “Aria…why didn’t you text me back within 10 minutes?”

Then, there were the gym-obsessed with their selfies, the “look at my passport stamps” braggarts, the ones hunting for Stepford wives, and the ones so unsure of themselves they couldn’t lead conversations, let alone relationships.

And then, there was the cultural challenge. For years, I stayed within my lane, using Indian-only dating apps like DilMil and Shaadi.com, assuming that someone from a similar background would be the easiest match. But the reality? Far from it.

My first date told me he expected his future wife to move in with his parents and cater to them. I haven’t lived with my own parents for a decade; there was no way I was about to sign up for a joint family household.

After that, I narrowed my search to Indian men who had been in the US for at least a decade. Surely, they’d be more assimilated. But the next guy I met said he’d prefer I didn’t work and just stay home to raise kids. As a successful marketing director, that wasn’t going to fly.

And the final straw? A guy who was thrilled I drank, calling me “so cool,” only to follow up with, “But you know, you wouldn’t be able to drink in front of my family. They wouldn’t be on board with that.”

I was defeated. Even if a guy had been in the States for years, it didn’t mean his mentality—or his family’s—had evolved.

So, I surrendered. I would stop filtering by race, by culture, by preconceived ideas of what my future husband should look like. I told myself it was just an experiment—just to see if there was a better alignment elsewhere.

That’s when I came across his profile.