Among the relics of 2024’s chaos was a phenomenon as absurd as it was telling: celebrity look-alike competitions. It kicked off with a Timothée Chalamet contest in New York, which quickly snowballed into a full-blown global trend filled with Zayn Malik, Paul Mescal, Glen Powell, and Jeremy Allen White doppelgängers.
Naturally, the Black community put its own spin on it. Forget singling out one man — enter Brooklyn’s Black Heartthrob Look-Alike Competition. The flyer was a visual feast: Kofi Siriboe, Keith Powers, Denzel Washington, Jesse Williams, Childish Gambino, Skepta. The unspoken ask was clear: “All the fine Black men, please stand up.”
For single women like me, this wasn’t mere entertainment. We wanted proof that somewhere in the murky, messy dating pool we’re all dog-paddling through, there might still be a man with a sharp jawline, charisma, and — dare we hope — the capacity to actually show up.
Straight hair – like thinness – is once again the beauty standard, and I've fallen for it.
Six men showed up. Six. How do I know? I was there. And of those, only two were actually single. Sure, we’re supposed to applaud the effort, but let’s be real — it was bleak. Still, in true Black-woman fashion, we made it a vibe — laughing, mingling, and turning lemons into spiked lemonade. Yet as I walked out of that Bed-Stuy park with a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes, one question lingered: Where are all the good Black men?
This question isn’t new. Black women have been asking it persistently and unapologetically for years: Why does the dating pool feel more like a puddle?
The numbers tell a story we’ve heard far too often: While 52.4% of white women were married in 2021, only 28.6% of Black women could say the same, according to US Census data analysed by the Journal of Blacks in Higher Education. Nearly half of us — 48% — have never been married at all.
Back in 2009 and 2010, ABC’s Nightline sparked a firestorm with two episodes dissecting Black women’s so-called struggles to find a man. More than a decade later, that part hasn’t changed. What’s changed is us. Black women have embraced a radical, unapologetic love for ourselves — a love that moves with the raw confidence of Doechii’s “Crazy” and echoes Issa Rae’s “I’m rooting for everybody Black.” We know our worth because we built it, brick by brick. We’re not begging for love; now we are demanding it rise to meet us.
But that doesn’t mean we’ve stopped craving connection. It doesn’t erase the ache for partnership or the weariness of dating when the effort so often falls short of the promise.
When my two-year relationship ended in 2024, I didn’t crumble. I stepped back into dating with clarity and an unshakable belief that I deserved better. I was hopeful, even excited. But after eight dates — with three different people — and too many failed meetups to count, reality and dating burnout hit hard. It felt like the look-alike competition all over again: brimming with promise, but delivering zero follow-through. And it wasn’t just about the men who showed up — it was about the ones who didn’t.
My most recent Hinge experience was a case in point. After deleting Raya — which I found a headache full of older men who don’t know what they want, people networking more than dating, and a glaring lack of Black men — I decided to give Hinge another shot. A friend of mine had just gotten engaged to her fiancé, a Hinge success story, and her sweet little nudge had me thinking, Why not?
Enter who I’m going to call Elijah: tall (at least according to his profile), a sharp smile, and banter that actually kept up with mine. He loved to travel (a nonnegotiable for me), he was a fellow Manchester United fan, and he even threw in a playful, “I like to troll at times too” during our first few messages, letting me know he wasn’t afraid to dish it right back. Enough shared interests to make me think, This might actually go somewhere.
At first things seemed promising. We agreed to meet — talked about a time and place — but as the day approached, I realised we were still just texting. No solid plans. No details. Nothing locked in. The vibe had shifted from “We’re meeting” to “Are we, though?”
In partnership with the End Violence Against Women Coalition, Not Your Porn, and Professor Clare McGlynn.
And then, instead of confirming, Elijah hit me with a full-on confessional. He admitted he had a fear of “temporary people,” wanting to know the end goal before anything even began. Translation: He’d already predrafted an expiration date for “us” before we’d even met, casually adding that he had one, maybe two, attempts left in him before giving up on love altogether.
At 30, I have no patience for mental gymnastics or existential dating crises. So, I got straight to the point: “Sir, is this your way of assessing if it’s even worth meeting?” Subtext: Are you canceling before we’ve even met?
Elijah tried to reassure me, “I just don’t want you to feel like I’m giving minimum effort.” But his actions said otherwise. The energy I want from a man comes without disclaimers, without doubts, and certainly without hesitation. So we wished each other well and closed the chapter before it had even begun.
For Black women in 2025, this isn’t a one-off story — it’s a recurring pattern. Breadcrumbing, soft-launching, and perfectly timed three-hour text responses have become the norm. The lack of effort has been so widespread, it’s turned into a collective punch line among my group of friends. Different faces, identical archetypes, and all roads lead to the same dead end.
But it’s not just me and my friends. Social media is filled with caricatures of guys who either completely miss the mark or almost get there but fall just short — across the board, not just Black men. There’s the I’m the Prize™ guy, who thinks a clean apartment, a steady gym routine, and a decent paycheck make him God’s gift to women. And the Podcast Philosopher™, who cloaks shallow takes on relationships in intellectual jargon, tossing them out like mic drops. One talks you in circles; the other expects you to meet him exactly where he stands. Both demand emotional labor they’d never offer in return, neither considering they might be the problem.
Then there’s the I Don’t Want to Waste Your Time™ guy, whose noble-sounding speech is just a preemptive excuse for minimal effort (looking at you, Elijah). Or his counterpart, Busy Guy™, whose grind seems admirable — until it’s clear there’s no room for you in it. And let’s not forget, 9 times out of 10, he’s the one who approached you.
Add to that the Love Bomber™, who talks about forever but can’t commit to next week; the Trauma Dumper™, who mistakes your emotional bandwidth for free therapy; and The Narcissist™, who doesn’t just leave you doubting yourself — he ensures it, chipping away at your confidence until all the focus is on him. And of course, the Grand Gesture Ghoster™, immortalised by the TikTok trend “Dudes the day before they ghost you,” with his hilariously over-the-top declarations—“Let’s go to Italy tomorrow…,” “I told my mom about us…,” “City Hall is just down the street!”—before vanishing without a trace.
I’ve met every version of these guys, and trust me, it’s exhausting. Sure, there’s a certain solidarity in the shared experience, but that doesn’t silence the nagging question: Is it me?
Anwar White, a popular dating coach who runs coaching mastermind sessions designed to help Black women, tells Glamour resolutely no. Dating burnout is not our fault. In fact, White’s take — that has helped propel him to TikTok fame — is that it’s the dating landscape fuelled by apps and algorithmically manufactured connections that’s the problem, not the people.
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he explains. “What feels personal is often structural.” And it’s shaped by what he describes as the market conditions.
These market conditions — systemic racism, what many see as algorithmic bias, cultural expectations and upbringings — disproportionately impact women of colour, particularly Black and brown women. White highlights the disparity he’s personally observed in his years of work in the field: “On dating platforms, white women achieve match rates close to 60%, while Black women see rates closer to 40%.” The divide, he says, grows even bigger when it comes to starting conversations. “White women convert matches to chats roughly 30% to 36% of the time, but for Black women, that figure falls to just 18%.” To put it plainly, if 100 men swipe right on you, only 18 will actually start a conversation.
But it’s White’s now viral advice to Black single women that has caused the most controversy.
“Earlier this year,” he says, “I told all of my clients that were on Hinge to change their race to white on Hinge.” His theory, which other Black women have tested out, is that this unlocks “higher-quality matches with directors, entrepreneurs, engineers, and accountants.”
The inference? Dating apps prioritise “optimal” matches for white women.
[A Hinge spokesperson said: “Hinge’s algorithm is designed to help daters find each other and get out on great dates. We have an intentional app design that makes it easier for daters to express themselves and connect with the people they are interested in. We strive to create an inclusive dating environment for all. We want everyone, including Black women, to feel seen, respected, and empowered to find meaningful connections on Hinge. We are constantly listening to our community to identify ways we can continue to improve the experience for everyone on their dating journey.”]
My friends have tried what White suggests — and they say they’ve seen the difference. But there’s a reason I haven’t. One that opens up a deeper, more nuanced conversation, one that doesn’t just spark debate but reaches into the heart of cultural identity and personal truth.
I’ve always believed in the expansiveness of love: Fall in love with whoever you fall in love with — no disclaimers, no caveats. But for me, the desire to marry not just Black but Ethiopian (the country and culture which I’m from) is deeply tied to who I am — and it’s a big reason why my options already feel limited. While I do date outside of my ethnicity and even my race, the hope of building a long-term partnership with someone Ethiopian remains. For me, it goes beyond shared traditions or the ease of speaking the same language at family dinners. It’s about a love that feels rooted, like home. It’s about building a legacy in which my children won’t just know their culture, they’ll embody it. My choice isn’t about closing doors; it’s about honouring the path I want to walk and the life I want to build — a life deeply connected to where I’ve come from and where I want to go.
I know I’m not alone in this. Even as intermarriage rates are increasing across the board, according to the most recent figures from the Pew Research Center, only 12% of Black women marry outside of their race. For many, it’s about a bond that feels undeniable — a layered connection that’s emotional, cultural, and physical. While there are whispers (and sometimes loud calls) to “continue the Black race,” the choice often comes from a deeper place — a desire to share a life with someone who intimately understands the beauty and the weight of being Black in this world.
But why does it feel so hard for Black women to find the love we’re craving?
For many Black women, the “market conditions” that arguably stack the dating game against us are often shaped by upbringing and cultural expectations. Growing up in an Ethiopian household, the rule was clear: no dating until I earned my first degree. It’s a story familiar to many immigrants or Africans — a strict no-dating policy that flips overnight into relentless questions about marriage the moment the diploma is in hand. There’s no in-between, no gradual easing into the complexities of love and partnership.
This delayed start often means stepping into relationships with the emotional maturity of a teenager but the intellectual weight of an adult, leaving us to navigate love’s intricacies without the foundational experiences others may take for granted.
But even as we navigate the internal pressures, the external forces loom larger. We can joke about the scarcity of “fine” Black men, but the truth is sobering: Systemic barriers, incarceration, mortality rates, and economic inequities don’t just thin the dating pool; they drain it. The world stacks the deck against us, and yet we’re still asked to play the game.
The prison industrial complex looms large, pulling too many men out of our communities and creating cycles of economic instability, which ripples through every aspect of life, including relationships.
Perhaps shaped by these systems, Black women are now outpacing Black men in education and advancing in careers, securing the majority of degrees among Black students. But while we sometimes out-earn Black men in specific fields, systemic inequities persist, leaving us earning less overall. Success comes with its own complications — chief among them a narrowing pool of equally accomplished partners.
So while we’re told to hold out for someone who matches our ambition and stability, for Black men who meet the so-called holy grail criteria, the dating market operates like a buffet for them. The options are endless, and staying within the community often feels optional. In contrast to Black women, a quarter of Black men marry outside their race.
White doesn’t shy away from what he sees as the solution: “If you’re a Black woman and you want to find love,” he tells me, “you need to start dating outside of your race. When you do, you increase your chances by seven times. I’m going to keep screaming it from the rooftops.” His advice isn’t about giving up on Black men but about expanding what love can look like. It’s a call to prioritize joy and connection over allegiance to a tradition that often feels one-sided.
While I won’t fully lean into White’s advice to keep the option of dating white men open, it’s not because I’m against it. I’ve seen too many Black women thrive in interracial marriages to dismiss it entirely. I’m open to the possibility, but for me, the path forward isn’t about chasing.
Now, as I’m currently in Ethiopia, surrounded by Habesha men, I feel clarity in a way I didn’t know I could. It’s sharp, uncompromising, and long overdue. I’m done with charmers whose intentions dissolve as quickly as their compliments. I’m walking away from egos that demand more than they’re willing to give. This week, a guy told me I should feel lucky to have met him. Imagine that.
No more. I’m saying yes to consistency, no to confusion. Yes to love that shows up and stays, no to love that feels like a negotiation.
Societies where women are doing well are also more peaceful, democratic, prosperous and better prepared to adapt to climate change.
Cleo Wade wrote in Remember Love, “It is a profound act of love to choose who you are going to be instead of living in response to who has hurt you and what has happened to you. To make your heart your divine responsibility.” Those words have been my North Star. I’m done outsourcing my worth. I’m reclaiming my heart as mine to nurture, mine to protect, and mine to honor.
Because the question was never “Why aren’t we enough?” It’s “Why did we ever think we had to ask?”
So I’ve stopped swiping. Stopped settling for crumbs when I’ve been the feast all along. Crushes? They’re just misplaced ambition — a mirror reflecting where I need to redirect my energy. Back into myself. Back into nurturing friendships, embracing community, and pouring into passions—back into creating a life that’s extraordinary, with or without romantic love.
And to Black men: We see you. We’ve carried you in our prayers, protests, and poems. But now we need you to see us — to meet us fully, with consistency, accountability, and care. Not as the strength you borrow or the softness you seek, but as whole, vast, and deserving of the love we so freely give.
The systems weren’t built for us, yet here we are — still standing, still shining. But we don’t have to keep playing by their rules. Love isn’t a game. It’s a choice — a sacred, deliberate act of showing up. And we’re done settling for anything less than love that feels like partnership, freedom, and home.
This article originally appeared on GLAMOUR (US).
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