Troy and I were having dinner at Mama Delia, one of the quieter spots. The sidewalk patio held five tables: three two-tops, including ours, and a pair pulled together for a group of eight women. At those tables, Troy was the only man.
The scene was beautiful — low lights, shared plates, shoulders angled in. The kind of evening people wait for all winter. Still, I found myself watching the crowd as it moved past us: women walking in pairs or alone, dressed with care. At table after table at the nearby restaurants, there was a noticeable absence of men — at least of men seated in what looked like dates.
Troy and I have known each other for almost 20 years. We met at Playboy, of all places, back when we were both learning how desire gets packaged, sold and sometimes misunderstood. We stayed close friends, bonded not just by our opinions, but by the effort it takes to stay in someone’s life.
That night, we made the effort. Still, what I saw unfolding around us felt like something else entirely: a collective shift I couldn’t unsee.
It started to become clear the previous April, when a man who had been pursuing me canceled a dinner at the last minute. There was a scheduling mix-up with his son’s game. I understood. I’m a hockey mom; I get it. Still, I went. I wore what I would have worn anyway. I took the table. I ordered well. And I watched the room.
Only two tables nearby seemed to hold actual dates. The rest were groups of women, or women alone, each one occupying her space with quiet confidence. No shrinking. No waiting. No apologizing.
That night marked something. Not a heartbreak, but an unveiling. A sense that what I’d been experiencing wasn’t just personal misalignment. It was something broader. Cultural. A slow vanishing of presence.
About grieving what’s not meeting us. And about refusing to dress it up as personal failure when it’s actually a collective reality.
So here’s what I’ll say: You are missed. Not just by me, but by the world you once helped shape.
We remember you. The version of you that lingered at the table. That laughed from the chest. That asked questions and waited for the answers. That touched without taking. That listened — really listened — when a woman spoke.
You are not gone, but your presence is thinning. In restaurants, in friendships, in the slow rituals of romantic emergence.
You’ve retreated — not into malice, but into something softer and harder all at once: Avoidance. Exhaustion. Disrepair.
Maybe no one taught you how to stay. Maybe you tried once, and it hurt. Maybe the world told you your role was to provide, to perform, to protect — and never to feel.
But here’s what’s real: We never needed you to be perfect. We needed you to be with us. Not above. Not muted. Not masked. Just with.
And you can still come back. Not by becoming someone else, but by remembering what connection feels like when it’s honest and slow. When it’s earned and messy and sacred.
We’re still here, those of us who are willing to cocreate something true. We are not impossible to please. We’re not asking for performances.
We are asking for presence. For courage. For breath and eye contact and the ability to say, “I’m here. I don’t know how to do this perfectly, but I want to try.”
Come back. Not with flowers or fireworks, but with willingness. With your whole, beautiful, imperfect heart.
We’re still here. And we haven’t stopped hoping.
As for me, I’ll keep showing up. Not because I’m waiting. Because I know what it feels like when someone finally arrives.
Oops, forgot my heckin Archive.
The scene was beautiful — low lights, shared plates, shoulders angled in. The kind of evening people wait for all winter. Still, I found myself watching the crowd as it moved past us: women walking in pairs or alone, dressed with care. At table after table at the nearby restaurants, there was a noticeable absence of men — at least of men seated in what looked like dates.
Troy and I have known each other for almost 20 years. We met at Playboy, of all places, back when we were both learning how desire gets packaged, sold and sometimes misunderstood. We stayed close friends, bonded not just by our opinions, but by the effort it takes to stay in someone’s life.
That night, we made the effort. Still, what I saw unfolding around us felt like something else entirely: a collective shift I couldn’t unsee.
It started to become clear the previous April, when a man who had been pursuing me canceled a dinner at the last minute. There was a scheduling mix-up with his son’s game. I understood. I’m a hockey mom; I get it. Still, I went. I wore what I would have worn anyway. I took the table. I ordered well. And I watched the room.
Only two tables nearby seemed to hold actual dates. The rest were groups of women, or women alone, each one occupying her space with quiet confidence. No shrinking. No waiting. No apologizing.
That night marked something. Not a heartbreak, but an unveiling. A sense that what I’d been experiencing wasn’t just personal misalignment. It was something broader. Cultural. A slow vanishing of presence.
About grieving what’s not meeting us. And about refusing to dress it up as personal failure when it’s actually a collective reality.
So here’s what I’ll say: You are missed. Not just by me, but by the world you once helped shape.
We remember you. The version of you that lingered at the table. That laughed from the chest. That asked questions and waited for the answers. That touched without taking. That listened — really listened — when a woman spoke.
You are not gone, but your presence is thinning. In restaurants, in friendships, in the slow rituals of romantic emergence.
You’ve retreated — not into malice, but into something softer and harder all at once: Avoidance. Exhaustion. Disrepair.
Maybe no one taught you how to stay. Maybe you tried once, and it hurt. Maybe the world told you your role was to provide, to perform, to protect — and never to feel.
But here’s what’s real: We never needed you to be perfect. We needed you to be with us. Not above. Not muted. Not masked. Just with.
And you can still come back. Not by becoming someone else, but by remembering what connection feels like when it’s honest and slow. When it’s earned and messy and sacred.
We’re still here, those of us who are willing to cocreate something true. We are not impossible to please. We’re not asking for performances.
We are asking for presence. For courage. For breath and eye contact and the ability to say, “I’m here. I don’t know how to do this perfectly, but I want to try.”
Come back. Not with flowers or fireworks, but with willingness. With your whole, beautiful, imperfect heart.
We’re still here. And we haven’t stopped hoping.
As for me, I’ll keep showing up. Not because I’m waiting. Because I know what it feels like when someone finally arrives.
Oops, forgot my heckin Archive.
that fucking sucks. Can't believe women have to deal with that. Thank you for bringing this to our attention. It's FUCKED up.
