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Dear techies, 

In our modern society, technology has infiltrated all aspects of our lives. That includes the most awkward, uncertain, exciting form of human interaction there is — dating. From the apps to textuationships, Notre Dame students’ habits with digital tech in romance reveal insights into the nature of our campus dating culture.

Last semester, a friend of mine set me up with a guy. Let’s call him Liam. We electronically exchanged polite logistics, making plans for a date. Liam was a good-looking former athlete, but unfortunately, he was a little shy. A few nights before our date, he struck up an extended conversation through text. We messaged back and forth, bubbles appearing and texts flying from “delivered” to “read” before any thoughts were complete. I was excited to have this newfound compatibility but nervous about the application to real life. Per my expectations, Liam was tight-lipped throughout the date. I tried to re-ignite the jokes we shared over text, but there was an awkward tension without the screen barrier.

Developing a relationship online makes for a rocky transition to real life. Liam ultimately got what he wanted: an official girlfriend he met and communicated with entirely through Instagram DMs. Truly modern romance at its finest.

If you think Instagram is bad, the dating apps aren’t much better on campus. Notre Dame is too small, meaning your potential matches are either 30-something townies or a jump scare from your student manager (which led me to immediately turn off my profile). However, I can tell you that they are well-designed for a big city with lots of young singles, like most study abroad destinations.

My first ever Hinge date came about during my time overseas. I had just landed in my new home city, opened a profile to browse the local options and ran into someone who had matched with me. As shallow as it sounds, I didn’t even recognize him in person. In front of me stood a 6-foot-5 man with an enchanting accent who had already overcome the barrier of meeting me in person. He messaged me after our interaction, joked about the one-in-a-million coincidence and asked me on a date. I probably wouldn’t have attended a date if I hadn’t met him — he didn’t appear to be exactly my type in photos. It goes to show that an online persona is never actually like your in-person self. I, and many others, can tell you about the opposite of that phenomenon, when real appearances can fall short of their digital versions.

This encounter reaffirmed my preference for in-person interactions, but it also inspired thought on the transparency of intentions online. My friends have proven to me the other significant advantages technology brings to dating.

This past spring, I indirectly made a match out of two class friends. We started as a trio, but the two kept hanging out to walk around the lakes and share Sunday dinners. By summer, they both knew they wanted to make the relationship official. The only problem: They live miles away from each other. Technology bridges this gap; my friend admits that he doesn’t like that their relationship happened through a phone, but he’s grateful FaceTime and messages allowed them to remain close while in different cities.

Technology isn’t inherently evil. It has serious benefits for forming and sustaining relationships. However, it does become dangerous when used as a substitute for real courtship and in-person interaction. With new advancements, misuse always follows — like Liam being unable to handle talking without a screen — but much good can come out of it. For example, a 2019 study from Stanford University found that online dating is the most popular way for couples to meet.

In an already digitally-connected world, where physical proximity plays an increasingly weaker role in social proximity, it’s wise to use the technological tools available to assist romantic encounters, not control the relationship.

Use wisely, 

The Irish Cupid