It started with a broken heart, as many transformative moments do. Mine wasn’t the dramatic, movie-esque kind of heartbreak where someone leaves you in the rain or yells, “It’s not you, it’s me!” (though, let’s face it, rain scenes are cinematic gold). No, my heartbreak was quieter, like an old tea kettle that finally cracks after years of use. It was the slow realization, halfway through a solo hot pot dinner, that I was more in love with the idea of love than the person I was actually sharing it with.

But let me rewind.

Beijing, Pizza, and the Problem with Fairy Tales

I was 24, living in Beijing, and four dates deep into what I thought was a promising relationship with one of those infuriatingly attractive guys who barely breaks a sweat biking across Third Ring Road in August. Let's call him "Mr. Almost." We had matched on a dating app with a bio that read, “Lover of history, film, and street food.” (Spoiler: Only one of those things was true. He knew nothing about history—which is unfortunate when you’re dating someone whose parents argue over Tang Dynasty poetry over dinner.)

Our dates were thrilling at first: a shared passion for late-night jianbing, heated debates over which Journey to the West adaptation was superior, and that electric chemistry of two people clearly in the honeymoon phase of liking each other. But beneath it, something didn’t feel quite right. I chalked it up to nerves, to my overthinking nature, to perhaps just needing more time. And then came The Dinner.

It was a Wednesday night. We were eating pizza in a dim, trendy restaurant tucked away in a hutong. I asked a seemingly innocuous question: “What’s your favorite book?” He blinked at me, an unimpressed smirk curling his lips, and said, “I don’t really read books. I feel like they’re overrated.” As someone raised with novels stacked so high they doubled as furniture, I felt my soul momentarily leave my body. Overrated?! For a second, I wondered if this was a prank—or worse, performance art.

It sounds petty, doesn’t it? Ending things over something as inconsequential as books. But as I sat there, chewing a particularly chewy crust and replaying how our conversations had always felt slightly… off, it hit me. I had been trying to mold this connection into something it wasn’t. He wasn’t the one who got me. He was the one I wanted to get me—and there’s a difference.

Swiping Left on My Own Expectations

After that evening, I felt a little lost. Dating had started to feel like a series of consensus-building meetings rather than the romantic adventures I read about in both Chinese poetry and fanfiction forums (yes, I know—opposite ends of the spectrum, but stay with me). Like many of us who grew up on epic love stories, I had this deeply ingrained narrative about what dating should look like. Spoiler: real love doesn’t show up like it does in a Zhang Yimou movie. There is no melodramatic score, no slow-motion scene where your scarf blows perfectly into their hands.

To face my romantic ideals, I did what any sensible, slightly dramatic creative would do—I overcorrected. I rewrote my dating profile in a desperate attempt to filter out anyone who didn’t fit my expectations. “Must love literary fiction” was now bullet point #1, closely followed by “Fluent sarcasm required; karaoke skills a plus.” Needless to say, it backfired. Instead of filtering out mismatches, I scared off everyone with the conviction of a college application essay.

The truth was, the more criteria I listed, the less I actually felt any connection on dates. I was so busy looking for a checklist partner, I wasn’t able to see someone for who they truly were. And when I wasn’t actively ghosting someone who “didn’t meet the vibes," I found myself ghosting my own needs, skating over my growing doubts with, “Well, at least they like spicy food!”

It was a therapist—a lovely, blunt woman who reminded me of a Slytherin professor—that finally gave me my “aha” moment: “You’re waiting for someone to write love in bold capital letters for you. What if you paid attention to the subtle ways it shows up instead?”

The Rewrite: Flawed, Funny, and Real

Inspired, I went back to basics. My online dating profile got a complete glow-down: less curation, more chaos. Instead of a bio that sounded like an application for an MFA program, I leaned into sincerity. I wrote one strong opening line—"I can quote Tang poems and Taylor Swift lyrics, and I’m still figuring out my favorite"—and left the rest honest but open-ended. My photos? A mix of me in my usual haunts: thrift shopping, hiking on Beijing’s less-crowded trails, and attempting a hotpot setup at home.

This shift wasn’t revolutionary. It didn’t immediately land me a soulmate or some epic fireworks moment. (Though there was one disastrous first date where I found myself explaining at length how a Song Dynasty emperor created one of China’s most famous poems about longing, while my match accidentally set his sleeve on fire trying to light a candle.) But it did help me see connections differently.

Here are some lessons I’ve learned since then about crafting not just a dating profile but an approach to online dating that works:

1. Let Your Bio Be Your Conversation Starter.

It’s tempting to fill your bio with appealing buzzwords, but personality always trumps pretension. Think of this as the appetizer—not the main course. Write something intriguing and human. Swap “I love travel and good vibes” with “I once got lost in Chiang Mai and ended up performing in a street parade. Ask me how.”

2. Pictures That Actually Tell a Story.

Pose for at least one “clean, put-together” photo that would pass the mom-check test, but let the rest reflect your life. Do you bake elaborate cakes? Snap one. Scratched together a poorly-built bookshelf from IKEA? Show it off. Perfection isn’t relatable—personality is.

3. Don’t Make Your Preferences A Wall of Demands.

Saying “Must love XYZ” can turn potential matches off faster than your ex explaining why they don’t read. Instead, be curious. Replace “Dog people only” with “Swear I’ve met dogs that could solve murder mysteries. Let’s talk animals!”

4. Keep It Open—But Respectful.

Treat online dating as an opportunity, not an audition. (Unless there’s a literal audition happening, like on Love Island. In that case, carry on.) Be open to surprises without compromising your boundaries.

The Moment That Changed Everything

That broken-heart-in-a-dimly-lit-pizza-place taught me to let go of the myths about love I’d been clinging to. Love isn’t always grand or poetic—it won’t always pass the Li Bai poetry test. Instead, it’s found in the gestures of showing up, of sharing a laugh, of building a bookshelf together (even when it collapses the next week).

So, if you’re stuck swiping or stuck reworking an endless list of “must-haves,” remember: The moment that changes everything doesn’t happen when someone says all the right things in their profile. It happens when you show up with curiosity and an open heart.

After all—even heartbreaks can come with chewy pizza crusts worth savoring.