He Pule

I saw a post recently from a woman who put together a kind of “dating application,” listing out qualities she wanted in a partner, things she had to offer, and what she expected in return. It was funny, smart, and clear. I respect that kind of clarity. I even admire the courage it takes to put your desires out into the world without apology.

I hope she finds exactly what she’s looking for, but it just seemed to miss the point of dating. Because for me, dating doesn’t feel like something I can or want to approach like a negotiation. When we treat relationships like contracts, with bullet points and benefits packages, we start to lose something essential. We start objectifying ourselves, framing who we are in terms of what we can offer, and evaluating others the same way. And while there’s nothing wrong with having standards, I think we forget that the real point of relationship is connection. You can’t contract your way into intimacy. You have to show up, fully and honestly, and meet someone else doing the same.

And maybe that’s part of the problem. The dating application format, even when meant playfully, still echoes the same cultural obsession with appearances: the résumé, the image, the list of assets and expectations. It’s all so curated. So performative. It mirrors the way we’re taught to value relationships, by how they look from the outside.

This isn’t to say that things like financial stability don’t matter or that marriage itself isn’t, in many ways, a contract. It absolutely is. Historically, it’s functioned as a patriarchal relic designed to secure male lineage and property. I’m not pretending those structures don’t exist. I’m just saying that when we lean too heavily on appearances or transactional logic, we risk replicating those systems without ever questioning them.

But the past few years have stripped all of that down. Caregiving, grief, exhaustion…those things made the illusion of “having it all together” feel hollow to me. What matters now is presence. Generosity. I’m not interested in the version of love that photographs well or checks the right boxes. I care how it feels when no one’s watching.

The truth is, I want a partner to do life with. And that feels very different from what I wanted in my twenties. Life is hard. I’m not looking for someone to rescue me or complete me. I’m looking for someone to witness, to walk with, to share the weight of all that’s beautiful and brutal about being alive.

And if Iʻm really really honest, I’m tired. Burnt out.

Tired of patronizing, condescending men who are incapable of really hearing me or seeing me. Men who talk over me, correct me, or shrink from the fullness of who I am. Who flatten conversations into competitions or make me feel like I have to justify my knowledge, my presence, my worth.

And then there are the vague ones, the emotionally slippery ones who give just enough to keep you wondering but never enough to actually build anything. Tiny sparks that seem promising but never become a flame. Just smoke, then silence.

And I own my part in that. I allowed people to enjoy the warmth of my fire without asking them to help tend it. I kept giving even when I wasn’t being fed. I made excuses for silence. I stayed too long hoping potential would turn into presence.

So no, I’m not putting out a dating application.

I’m putting out a pule.

A prayer. An intention. A quiet request to the universe and to my kūpuna.

Not for someone perfect, but for someone willing.

Willing to show up, not just when it’s easy, but when it’s uncomfortable. Willing to speak their truth, even clumsily. Willing to meet me in the quiet moments and not flinch. Someone who sees the fire and comes not just to warm themselves but to help keep it alive.

That’s not something you negotiate. That’s something you build.