It all started with a photo. Not the kind you’d expect—no sunsets or carefully crafted latte art. No, this was a candid shot of me mid-laugh, holding a bridle in one hand and wearing a comically oversized Stetson for a Fourth of July rodeo. My cousin posted it without permission—classic. My first instinct was to hate it. My second instinct, much quieter but harder to ignore, was to use it.
At the time, I was dipping my very skeptical toes into the lukewarm pool of online dating. I’d never thought of myself as someone who needed an “algorithm” to find someone. Surely, someone who grew up surrounded by open skies, not blue-light screens, could stumble into love the old-fashioned way. Right? Wrong. After repeatedly bumping into charming cowhands who talked more to their boots than to me, I’d decided to give digital matchmaking a hesitant shot. What came next was a pivotal moment—not just for my dating life, but for how I saw myself.
The Great “About Me” Panic
First, I agonized over my profile’s “About Me” section—the online dating equivalent of walking into a room and shouting, “Here’s who I am, please love me!” It’s an overwhelming task. Am I the outdoorsy girl who's always up for adventure? The bookworm who cries over Dickinson between sips of chamomile tea? The irreverent cheese enthusiast who knows too much about gouda for her own good? Or am I some Frankensteinian mix of all three?
For days, I tried to write something witty, soul-baring, and effortlessly cool. After several drafts (including an ill-advised Neruda quote—look, a girl was spiraling), I gave up and went back to basics. “Montana-born writer. Hiker. Tea drinker. Might talk your ear off about the proper way to stack firewood. Swipe right for horse puns.”
Once the text stopped trying so hard to be clever, it actually felt like me. And that's when I remembered the photo. That moment became my North Star for this whole profile-building circus: show up as the version of yourself you’d invite someone to fall in love with, laugh lines and all.
Crafting a Profile that Doesn’t Give Second-Hand Embarrassment
Friends have told me that building the “perfect” dating profile feels like crafting a résumé for romance. (Does seeing Hamilton seven times count as a transferable skill?) But what I learned is that it’s less about perfection and more about authenticity. Here are a few things that helped me build a profile that didn’t make me want to chuck my phone into a canyon.
1. Lead with the Laughs, Not the Lies
Nobody cares that you climbed Kilimanjaro if you’re going to lie about loving experimental jazz. (Seriously. It’s okay to just say you don’t get it.) Instead of trying to manufacture a “cool” persona, I embraced being a little quirky, a little small-town, and deeply unhip. For me, that meant horse jokes. Not everyone can appreciate the pun potential of “neigh-sayers,” but the ones who do might just be keepers.
Tip for you: Write like you’re bantering with a friend, not pitching a Shark Tank idea about why you’re dateable. Keep it light, specific, and true. Think, “I’m the kind of person who snacks on pickles while watching reruns of Parks and Recreation.” (Because honestly, aren’t we all?)
2. A Picture (or Five) is Worth a Thousand “Hey”s
About that photo. It made me nervous. It’s not airbrushed, posed, or even particularly flattering. But it is real. Turns out, authenticity is magnetic—or, at the very least, it’s better than posting yet another blurry hiking pic where you’re indistinguishable from the landscape. (Or the ubiquitous “holding-a-fish” photo men love, but that’s a rant for another day.)
Once I tossed my literal hat in the ring with the candid Stetson photo, the matches got better. They weren’t just commenting, “You’re so pretty” (like, thanks? But also, a little depth maybe?), they were saying things like, “What’s your favorite part of working with horses?” or “Do you still ride?” It started conversations.
Tip for you: Pick pictures that tell a story about you. One candid moment. One shot that shows what lights you up. One ridiculous throwback just for kicks. Your future partner doesn’t need filters—they need a snapshot of your life.
3. Strip it Down (Your Bio, Not Your Clothes)
Listen, people aren’t reading your bio like it’s a Pulitzer submission. Keep it snappy. I used bullet points because they’re digestible, kind of like Tinder tapas. Here’s how mine shaped up:
- “Montana-native grounded by stories and stargazing.”
- “Will trade fire-building skills for s’mores.”
- “Writes novels, but skips the epilogues in real life. Let’s see where this goes?”
Tip for you: Highlight the gems in your life that make you you—whether that’s knitting cardigans for your cat or crushing at bar trivia. Be intriguing, concise, and playful. This is the start of a conversation, not a life story.
The Swipe That Changed Everything
Once the profile was live, the panic shifted to the swiping phase—a dizzying exercise in judging (and being judged) by complete strangers. But one match stood out almost immediately: an editor based in Wyoming who quoted Wallace Stegner in his bio and confessed to keeping a perfectly organized spice rack. His opening line? “So, do horse puns work better on stallions or mares?”
Reader, I screamed.
What followed was the kind of connection I wouldn’t have believed possible through something as impersonal as an app. We clicked on everything from our shared love of Robert Frost poetry to his unapologetic hatred of cilantro. I didn’t have to perform, polish, or pretend. And to my shock, he felt the same way. (Spoiler alert: we’ve been together for two years and now own a shared spice rack. It’s glorious.)
Embracing the Turning Point
Looking back, that accidental rodeo photo was the turning point—not because it singlehandedly “fixed” my love life, but because it forced me to get honest about who I was putting out into the world. The right people don’t need you to curate some flawless persona. They need YOU: your gaps, your grit, your goofy self.
Dating profiles might seem cringe-worthy at first glance, but imagine them differently: they’re like sending a handwritten note out into the universe. You’re making a promise to show up exactly as you are, hoping someone out there is ready to do the same. Sometimes, you’ll meet duds who only skim the note and miss your worth entirely. But every now and then, someone might read between the lines—and when they do, it’ll feel like magic.
So if you’re stuck trying to sum up your dazzling, messy, endlessly lovable self in a few characters, remember this: your quirks are your superpower. Show them off. Find your Stetson photo. Write your dry firewood joke. And for heaven’s sake, skip the Neruda quotes. Unless, of course, they’re about horses.
