I’ve got to admit something that took me years to say out loud: I saw the red flags. I just didn’t want to believe them. I made excuses, told myself I was overthinking, and tried to be “understanding.” Deep down, I knew something wasn’t right. But when you’re craving connection, it’s amazing how far you’ll stretch the truth just to keep someone close.

Looking back, it was always there. That uneasy feeling when they were hot and cold. The way they’d charm me with words but vanish without explanation. The jokes that cut a little too deep. The vague answers. The lack of questions. The way I felt like I was applying for a role in their life rather than being welcomed into it.

But I didn’t want to give up. I liked the idea of what we could be more than the reality of who we were. So I ignored the signals. I downplayed the discomfort. I blamed my past for making me too sensitive. Truth is, I was just hoping they’d turn into the version of themselves they showed in the beginning.

You know that early stage when they’re attentive, asking questions, making time, calling you “babe” before they even know your last name? I held onto that version even when it faded. Because if they could be that person once, surely they could be again. But that’s the trap. We cling to potential, even when reality is waving its hands in front of us saying, “This isn’t it.”

One of the biggest signs I ignored? Inconsistency. The emotional rollercoaster. I’d go from feeling special to invisible without warning. They’d go cold, then come back with just enough affection to keep me hooked. And I’d fall for it, telling myself they were just busy or had a lot going on. Maybe they did. But someone who’s truly into you doesn’t make you feel optional.

Then there were the little digs—comments masked as “just joking” that made me shrink a little. The way they never really asked about my life or remembered the things I said. The way I’d feel deflated after seeing them, even though I was trying so hard to impress. That low-grade anxiety I brushed off as butterflies. It wasn’t nerves. It was my gut saying, “Something’s off here.”

And yet I stayed. I poured energy into a version of the relationship I hoped would exist if I just waited long enough. But here’s what I know now: if you’re doing emotional gymnastics just to keep someone’s attention, that’s not connection—it’s survival mode.

I used to think setting boundaries would scare people off. Now I know the right ones aren’t scared—they’re relieved. The right ones want to know your standards. They want to meet you at eye level. They don’t pull away when you ask for clarity or consistency. They lean in.

These days, I check in with myself early. I don’t wait until I’m six months deep and emotionally drained to ask, “Does this feel good?” I ask from the start. And if the answer’s no—even if I want it to be yes—I listen.

If you’re ignoring the signs right now, I get it. I’ve been there. It’s painful to walk away from something you wanted to believe in. But I promise you, it’s more painful to stay in something that chips away at your self-worth. Love should feel like peace, not confusion. Like warmth, not whiplash.

This is Dating Dave, finally paying attention to the signs—and reminding you that your gut isn’t dramatic, it’s protective. You just have to trust it.