I hope you break up

Ever since I moved to Toronto, I thought dating would be easier.

Not because I thought a boyfriend would magically appear at my doorstep, but because of the sheer number of people. More people meant more possibilities. More possibilities meant a greater chance of finding someone I genuinely connected with.

At least, that's what I thought.

What I didn't realize, was that this world of possibilities existed in ways that were far less charming than I imagined. Because when you increase the number of people around you, you don't just increase the likelihood of finding a connection. You also increase the likelihood of believing there is always a better one waiting around the corner.

I've always been disgustingly monogamous in nature.

So monogamous, in fact, that if I'm talking to a few people and one connection starts to stand out, everyone else naturally fades into the background. If I feel something developing, my attention goes where my interest goes. I stop looking. I stop entertaining alternatives. I focus on the person in front of me.

For a long time, I assumed other people approached dating the same way.

I was wrong.

One of the harsher realities of dating in a large city is realizing that many people don't view connections as something to nurture, but rather as something to compare.

Someone can check nine out of ten boxes, but instead of appreciating the nine, they become fixated on the one. Maybe she's kind, intelligent, attractive, emotionally available, and shares the same values. Maybe he's thoughtful, dependable, ambitious, and genuinely invested. But one small thing isn't perfect, and because there are millions of people around them, they convince themselves that somewhere out there is someone who checks every box.

So they keep looking.

The result is that people fumble each other while searching for something better than good.

What has unsettled me most about modern dating isn't rejection, situationships or even being ghosted. It's the realization that exclusivity and commitment are no longer values that everyone assumes.

For most of my life, I operated under the belief that if someone liked you, they pursued you. If they chose you, they focused on you. And if they entered a relationship with you, they did so because they genuinely wanted to be there.

Maybe that sounds naive.

Maybe it is.

I never viewed commitment as a sacrifice. I viewed it as a natural consequence of finding something worth investing in. I wasn't prepared to discover just how many people seem to approach dating as though they are perpetually browsing. Even after making a selection, even after choosing a partner, even after building a life with someone, they continue looking through the shop window just to see what else might be available.

Perhaps that's the unintended consequence of living in a world built on endless options. Dating apps present hundreds of potential matches with the swipe of a finger. Social media gives us constant access to people from our past. Former connections are never truly gone. They're simply a search bar away.

The result is that many of us are no longer comparing our relationships to reality. We're comparing them to possibility.

And possibility is impossible to compete with.

A real relationship contains disagreements, routine, compromise, boredom, stress, and ordinary Tuesdays.

A fantasy contains none of those things. A fantasy never leaves dishes in the sink, it never disappoints you, and it never requires work.

So when people begin measuring their real lives against imagined alternatives, they often convince themselves that the problem isn't their expectations. It's their partner.

And I think that's why so many people seem restless.

Not necessarily because they've chosen the wrong person, but because they've never stopped wondering whether someone better exists.

I've seen this play out in more ways than I wish I had. I've heard stories of married men with children maintaining dating app profiles while away on work trips. I've met men who appeared to be 120 percent interested in me, only to disappear overnight because they were simultaneously nurturing another connection that happened to progress faster.

And then there are the moments that have nothing to do with dating apps at all.

Let me paint a picture. You're happily single. You post a selfie in a bikini on your Instagram story. And suddenly, men in long-term relationships start liking it. Not the photo of your coffee or the one of your dog. Not the sunset.

That one.

The one they know exactly why they're liking.

And I find myself thinking less about them and more about their girlfriends. The women who probably have no idea. The women who likely believe they are in secure, loving relationships while their partners are quietly seeking little hits of validation elsewhere. It makes me sad more than anything.

Because these men often look happy. They travel together, celebrate anniversaries., they post each other. From the outside, everything appears perfectly fine. Yet somehow, they're still peeking over the fence.

Then, there are the ones I find even more fascinating.

The men who chose someone else.

The men who got into relationships and cut ties with you entirely. The men you no longer follow and who no longer follow you. And yet somehow, they continue to watch every story.

You know the ones. The names buried deep in the non-followers section. The silent lurkers. The men who made a conscious decision not to pursue a future with you but somehow still find their way back to your profile months or years later. Most never say a word. Some occasionally slide into your messages.

But it's the silent ones that intrigue me the most. Because I can't help but wonder why.

Why are you searching my name?

Why are you checking my stories?

Why are you spending your time looking into a life you actively chose not to be part of?

Because if you're genuinely happy, if you're truly fulfilled in the relationship you're in, why am I crossing your mind at all?

And to those men, I say that I hope you break up.

Not because I want you, because there's something left to rekindle, or because I'm secretly hoping you'll come back.

I hope you break up because if you're still searching my name months or years later, then maybe the relationship you're in isn't receiving the version of you that it deserves.

I hope you break up because the woman beside you deserves someone whose attention isn't wandering elsewhere.

And maybe that's what unsettles me most about modern dating. Not that people leave or that connections end. But that so many people seem determined to keep one foot in the relationship they've chosen and another in the possibility of one they haven't.

Commitment stopped meaning, "I've chosen you."

Instead, it started meaning, "I've chosen you, for now."

I guess that's why dating feels so much harder than I thought it would when I first moved to this city.

Not because there aren't enough people.

But because there are so many that we've forgotten how to stop looking.

Costa Rica changed something in me: Part II - Monteverde

Leaving Tamarindo was bittersweet in a way I didn’t fully expect.

Just a few days earlier, everybody there had been complete strangers. And somehow, by the time I was climbing into the shuttle toward Monteverde, it already felt like I was leaving behind a version of myself that had briefly existed there in the sun - barefoot, uncomplicated, and fully present.

But despite the sadness, I was excited for what came next. Or maybe more accurately, I was excited for something different.

I knew Monteverde would not feel like Tamarindo. There would be no salty air, no surfboards leaning against walls, no loud groups gathering for sunset before accidentally ending up at karaoke bars. In my mind, Monteverde existed as mist and quiet. Cloud forests, rain, greenery in every imaginable shade, and solitude above all.

I had intentionally booked myself a private room there because I tend to do that on longer trips. Usually I’ll stay in hostels throughout when I travel solo but halfway through the trip, I will retreat into my own private room before eventually finding my way back outward again. It’s almost like a reset within the reset.

And honestly, the shuttle ride there already felt like the beginning of that transition.

Funny enough, I was the only person on the shuttle. No conversations around me, no headphones leaking music from nearby seats, no strangers squeezed beside me. Just me, the driver, and the road ahead.

As we got further away from the coast, everything slowly began changing. The dry heat disappeared and the landscape became impossibly green. The higher we climbed, the denser the vegetation became, like the rainforest had suddenly swallowed everything whole.

And maybe because I was alone in that shuttle, I was finally able to fully absorb it.

There were no distractions. No conversations. No noise. Just me sitting there watching an entirely different version of Costa Rica emerge outside my window.

When I arrived at the hostel, I felt the shift immediately.

There were a few people sitting quietly in the common area when I walked in, but the energy of the place felt entirely different from the Surf House. There was no music drifting through the windows, no loud laughter echoing off the walls. Everything felt softer. Slower.

I think I needed that.

I settled into my room, grateful for the giant bed and my own bathroom, already sensing how differently this part of the trip would unfold. Less movement. Less chaos. More time spent retreating inward.

That night, I ended up signing up for a rainforest night tour with a few people from the hostel. Before heading out, we all grabbed dinner together at a little soda nearby, and once again I found myself realizing how quickly strangers can begin feeling familiar while traveling.

Then we headed into the rainforest.

We were handed flashlights and guided into the darkness, and honestly, one of the coolest parts of the experience wasn’t even the animals themselves - it was the darkness.

Every now and then, our guide would ask us to turn our flashlights off while only she kept hers on so that she can guide us to look at particular spots. And in those few seconds between all of our lights disappearing and hers turning back on, everything became completely black.

Not dim. Actually black.

The kind of darkness that reminds you how dependent we are on light to feel safe.

Standing there in the middle of a rainforest, hearing sounds you couldn’t identify and seeing absolutely nothing beyond what your flashlight could create, I remember thinking how unbelievably small we really are.

There is so much life existing beyond us, around us, underneath us, above us - entire ecosystems breathing in darkness while we move through them believing ourselves to be significant.

And there was something strangely comforting about that realization. Humbling in the best possible way. By the time we got back to the hostel, I was ready to retreat into myself again. And unlike at home, where solitude can sometimes feel restless, here it felt peaceful.

I think that was the biggest difference between Monteverde and Tamarindo. Tamarindo constantly pulled me outward. Monteverde allowed me to come back inward.

The next morning, I came downstairs without much of a plan and ended up talking to a Jordanian girl that lives in Spain. We bonded almost immediately and decided to spend the day together.

But what stuck with me most happened maybe thirty minutes into knowing each other.

I mentioned wanting to stop at the grocery store to grab something small for breakfast before we headed out for the day, and she immediately offered to share her groceries with me.

That moment really stayed with me.

Because here I was with someone I had barely met, and already she was offering to share what she had with me. No hesitation. And in that moment, it felt like I stumbled upon one of the love languages of travel.

There is something incredibly beautiful about the way travelers share with one another. Not just food, although sometimes it is as simple as that, but stories, recommendations, time, company - little pieces of themselves. There’s this unspoken understanding between people who are all temporarily existing away from home and trying to experience the world while also trying to find connection within it.

Travel strips so much away from people. The pressure to appear important. The invisible hierarchy people cling to in everyday life. In hostels especially, everyone simply exists as they are. Something about that feels deeply human.

Later that day, we headed off to a waterfall together. And honestly, the hike leading there was unexpectedly special. What I really admired about her was the way she moved through the world. She was the type of person who genuinely stopped to notice things. She didn’t treat the hike as simply the annoying thing standing between us and the waterfall. She appreciated everything along the way too.

Because what if all of it is special?

And honestly, it was.

At one point during the hike, we spotted these enormous blue butterflies fluttering through the rainforest, and they were so unbelievably beautiful they almost didn’t look real.

Moments like that made me realize there truly is so much beauty in slowing down enough to notice what’s around you.

Not just the big moments.

Everything.

The waterfall itself was incredible too, mostly because we practically had the entire place to ourselves. It wasn’t some huge tourist attraction - just one of those little local spots casually recommended by the hostel.

So there were no crowds, no pressure to move along quickly, no fighting for pictures.

We swam, climbed around the rocks, and eventually just sat quietly listening to the waterfall.

That silence felt incredibly full.

I think that moment shifted something in me a little bit because we are so conditioned to believe that if we are not documenting every second, then somehow we are not fully living it.

But honestly, the best part of being there had nothing to do with taking pictures.

It was simply sitting there.

Being present enough to let the moment exist without immediately trying to turn it into something consumable afterward.

That night, I called it an early one and spent the evening alone in my room watching a show. And once again, the simplicity of it all felt strangely healing.

Monteverde kept teaching me that sometimes existing quietly is enough.

The next day was my last full day there, and the same Jordanian girl, an American guy we had met, and I decided to hike through a cloud forest.

The hike started gently enough. At first, we moved slowly through the trails, stopping every few minutes to admire unusual plants, insects, massive trees, and tiny details hidden within the rainforest. But before long, we somehow drifted onto the harder trails. And in hindsight, this may have been slightly ambitious for someone like me, whose definition of hiking is usually just “a very long walk.” What I hadn’t fully prepared myself for was how difficult the elevation would feel once combined with the humidity of the rainforest. It wasn’t necessarily the climbing itself that challenged me - it was the thickness of the air, the constant moisture, the feeling that every breath required slightly more effort than usual.

And because I have a history of positional vertigo, the shifts in elevation, humidity, and rain started catching up with me pretty quickly. There were definitely moments where I thought, “I genuinely don’t know if I can keep doing this.” But something in me refused to stop.

Partly because I wanted to be able to say I had actually hiked through a cloud forest, but mostly because I knew how rare that experience really was. Realistically, how many times in my life would I get to do something like this?

So I decided I would stop as many times as I needed to stop, but I was going to finish it.

And to make things slightly funnier, we had unknowingly chosen some of the outermost trails in the park, meaning there wasn’t really an easy shortcut back anymore.

At some point, whether gracefully or not, I simply had to figure it out. And eventually, I did. Between the mud, the exhaustion, the rain, and the vertigo, I found myself pushing through anyway.

Even the viewpoints became funny in their own way because what exactly do you expect to see from a viewpoint in a cloud forest other than clouds?

And yet, it was still breathtaking.

The sounds alone felt alive. Birds echoing through the trees, rain falling somewhere in the distance, entire shifts in vegetation depending on elevation. Massive moss-covered trees, leaves bigger than my torso, insects and birds I had never seen before.

Everything felt wild in the purest sense of the word.

Untouched.

By the end of the hike, our shoes were so caked in mud that we genuinely questioned whether they would ever recover. So when we finally finished, hosed them down, and sat at a little café waiting for our shuttle back, the reward felt absurdly satisfying.

I ordered a fresh fruit smoothie and an empanada, and I swear that first sip alone made every difficult moment worth it. Because that’s the funny thing about experiences like that. When you’re in the middle of them, exhausted and uncomfortable, they can feel endless.

And then suddenly you’re sitting somewhere warm and still again, holding a smoothie in your hand, and the pain already feels distant. Like your body has immediately decided it was all worth it.

And honestly, it was.

That night was my last night in Monteverde. By then, I had made a handful of friends there too, even if the connections felt quieter and softer than the ones in Tamarindo. A few of us decided to go watch the sunset from one of the higher viewpoints before grabbing dinner together afterward. Funnily enough, that dinner ended up being one of the best meals I had during the entire trip.

But more than the food itself, I remember sitting there realizing that once again, I was sharing a final meal with people I had met less than seventy-two hours earlier.

Somehow, that had become enough time for them to matter to me. To know that I would miss them. Later that night, after exchanging my goodbyes and retreating back to my room, I just sat there reflecting on everything. Another chapter of the trip was over. The next morning, my shuttle would arrive at 8 a.m. and I would head toward the final leg of the adventure: La Fortuna.

And while I was excited for it - excited to reunite with Sirena, excited to pick up the pace a little again - there was still a sadness sitting quietly underneath it all. Because there was still so much more I wanted from Monteverde. More time to sit inside that lush, mossy stillness. More time to disappear into the quiet.

I’ve always said that one day I would love to do one of those silent retreats with Buddhist monks - the kind where you spend seven or ten days speaking to nobody at all. Maybe that’s because silence has always felt slightly outside my comfort zone.

I am an extrovert by nature. I love people. I love conversation and laughter and connection. But Monteverde reminded me that solitude can be beautiful too. That there is something deeply valuable about sitting quietly with yourself long enough to actually hear your own thoughts.

And so the next morning, after saying goodbye to everyone and climbing onto yet another shuttle, I found myself overwhelmed with gratitude.

Not just for the trip itself, but for the privilege of being able to experience it at all.

To have enough time off.

Enough money.

Enough freedom to explore the world this way.

Because there is something profoundly transformative about doing this kind of inner work alone in another country. And I don’t take that privilege lightly. Not for a second.

Once I was settled in the shuttle and on the road, I remember thinking the same thing I had thought so many times throughout Costa Rica already:

How lucky I am to exist in a world with this much beauty in it.

Costa Rica changed something in me: Part I - Tamarindo

I recently came back from a trip that I think altered my brain chemistry in a way that none of the other places I’ve traveled to ever have. There is far too much to say about Costa Rica to fit into one post. Too many moments, too many versions of myself that seemed to emerge there, too many small details that somehow became life-sized in memory.

So this is not the whole story.

This is only Part I. This is Tamarindo.

This wasn’t my favourite place I’ve ever been. That title still belongs to Barcelona - the city that still makes me wonder what would happen if I simply left my life behind and moved there.

But this trip was different.

It was my first time in a long while spending nearly two weeks in one country. If you know me, or know the way I’ve traveled over the last few years, you know I rarely stay in one place long enough to let it know me back. I’ve moved through countries quickly, chaotically, efficiently. Collecting moments, maybe, but not always absorbing them. Not staying long enough to feel local anywhere.

This time, I stayed.

And I’m not sure I’ll be able to give the experience the justice it deserves, but here is my best attempt.

From the moment I boarded the plane to Liberia, I knew this trip would feel different. Most of my travel has happened in Europe - a continent where airports flow into train stations, buses arrive with logic, and infrastructure often seems to anticipate your confusion before you even feel it.

Costa Rica was not like that.

Nothing felt overly polished or handed to you. Especially because I wasn’t staying in Liberia. I was heading to Tamarindo - a beach town affectionately and critically nicknamed Gringo-rindo, a place heavily shaped by tourism, where locals have often been pushed to the edges of what was once theirs. But I arrived during Semana Santa, the week of Easter, when locals also had time off. And suddenly Tamarindo felt like something fuller.

It was alive with vibration, electricity, laughter, movement. The beach belonged to everyone at once. Tourists and locals standing in the same sand, chasing the same sunset, listening to the same music, living under the same warm sky.

That felt special from the very beginning.

I stayed at a small place called Mai Ke Kai Surf House - a surf hostel where surfers and travellers crossed paths under one roof. When I first arrived, I was surprised by how small it was. I got there in the middle of the day, when everyone was either at the beach or somewhere else entirely. It was quiet. Too quiet. I felt uneasy walking in. This was the longest leg of my trip, and I was desperately hoping that I’d make friends there. Friendship in adulthood often feels like something you have to accidentally stumble into.

There were two girls sitting in the kitchen, eating and chatting.

I said hi.

They said hi.

Ten minutes later, I was walking to the beach with them to watch the sunset.

That one small yes turned into everything that made Mai Ke Kai one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever stayed.

They were two girls from Quebec who had known each other for years. Within the hour, they introduced me to another friend they had made there - a guy from Quebec who was also staying at the hostel.

Somewhere between the sand, the conversations, and the ease of it all, the four of us became inseparable.

We only had three days together, but they felt strangely full. The kind of days that stretch longer in memory than they did in real time.

That same night we met more people - a firefighter from Toronto, a scientist from Ottawa - and went to a night market. The next day we piled into a car and drove to another beach.

And somewhere in those simple plans, things in me started to make sense again.

I felt welcomed.

I felt appreciated.

I felt seen.

I felt, for a brief moment, that I could stop thinking about everything waiting for me back home and simply live inside the day that was in front of me.

One of the girls said something to me that touched me more than she probably realized.

She told me she loved how I appreciated every little thing. That if sunlight hit a flower in a certain way, I stopped to notice it. That if there was a dog on the street, I would light up and call out to it like I always do. That no matter how small the detail was, I never seemed to miss it. She admired that I moved through life actually seeing it.

And the strange thing was, hearing that felt both beautiful and uncomfortable.

Because who I was there felt like the person I want to be all the time - but not always the person I believe myself to be. Reality can harden you. Routine can dull you. The places we live in shape how brightly we allow ourselves to show up. So part of me felt like an imposter wearing the version of myself I liked most.

But maybe she saw something I forgot.

Maybe that softness, that noticing, that wonder - is me. Even when life makes me feel far from it.

On the Quebec girls’ last full day in Tamarindo, we decided to go surfing. It was all of our first times. The lesson began on land, where everything felt manageable enough -the instructor explaining technique, how to position yourself, when to pop up, where to place your feet. Things that sound simple in theory and entirely different once an actual wave is involved.

I am not a particularly coordinated person. I’m not naturally athletic in the way some people seem to be. I used to swim competitively, but balance, timing, hand-eye coordination - those have never felt like gifts I was given.

So I certainly did not expect to be someone who would stand on a surfboard.

And yet, somehow, I did. The moment my feet planted themselves on that board and I realized I was actually riding the wave, I let out the most involuntary squeal of joy.

The kind of joy that bypasses dignity entirely and that comes from surprising yourself.

By the end of the lesson, we all sat there in disbelief, sore and laughing, our bodies marked with what felt like rug burns from the friction of boards against bare skin. Later, the salt water would sting every raw spot it touched.

I didn’t care.

Some discomforts are worth earning. Because in exchange, I got one of the most exhilarating moments of my life. The sound I made when I realized I was standing on that board will probably live rent-free in my mind forever.

I knew it even then, while the sand still clung to my skin and adrenaline hadn’t worn off yet: That day was the best day. And it felt like it.

The girls left on the second last day I had there.

The Quebec boy was staying a few days longer and he became my sidekick for the remainder of my time there. We went to the beach. He surfed. I baked in the sun.

When we got back, I said I’d shower and maybe take a nap. Saltwater, sand, sunscreen and the sun was all I knew.

The shower was outside. And I cannot begin to explain how an outdoor shower feels in a hot climate like Costa Rica. Water that is not too cold but not too warm, landing on sun-heated skin. Washing your hair while the air still carries the day’s heat. Smelling the soap. Watching grains of sand run down your body and disappear through the slats below. It was simple and it made perfect sense.

Once I was clean, fatigue took over me completely.

I could have gone to my dark room, but upstairs there was a daybed beneath the roof, open on all sides to the air, and empty.

So I chose that instead.

I laid down with wet hair and felt the small breeze begin drying it strand by strand. I fell asleep to birds chirping, to distant voices drifting through the surf house, to the quiet sounds of life continuing around me.

Two hours later, I woke when the sun had shifted and was pouring directly onto my shoulders.

It felt warm. Good, even.

But I knew if I didn’t get up then, I’d wake later with the kind of sunburn that punishes joy.

So I stood, still hazy from sleep, and walked back downstairs.

And somehow, as it had all week, life was waiting for me again.

That night, we all decided we would stay in and hang out at the hostel.

Some drinks, pizza, and more cigarettes than I should probably admit to sharing with the Danish boys carried us through the evening.

Two new girls had arrived - also from Toronto and determined to go out.

I wasn’t particularly keen on it at first.

But once again, I said yes.

And once again, that yes gave me more than I expected.

The bar next door was hosting karaoke.

That karaoke night became one of those nights you tell the stories about. It was loud, funny, unplanned, filled with strangers who somehow feel familiar by midnight. We laughed, danced, sang badly, played beer pong, and forgot whatever version of ourselves existed outside that moment.

Later, I walked back to the surf house alone (after somewhat irish exiting), tired and grateful, realizing how fortunate I was to be living a night like that with people I had only just met. People who were already shaping everything about my trip.

The next day was my last full day there. After that, I would be leaving the coast behind and heading into the cloud forests of Monteverde. So I made the beach the priority.

That morning, a Danish girl, the Quebec boy, and I went there with no real plan beyond the sun, ocean, and time. After a while she left first, and the two of us followed hunger to the smoothie place we had now gone to for what felt like four days in a row. By then it had become one of those little rituals travel gives you - a place you’ve only just discovered, yet somehow already feels like yours.

The day moved strangely fast.

I spent time with the Finnish girl who had been traveling full-time and was now volunteering at the surf house. I spoke with my friend from Mexico who was also volunteering there.

And then, it was time for one last sunset.

This time with my dear friend, the Quebec boy.

That last sunset felt different. Different because once the silly photos were taken, silence took over naturally.

We sat beside each other and watched the sun lower itself into the horizon until it disappeared completely, and the sky began doing what it does best after loss - becoming even more beautiful. When the colours changed, we spotted our Danish boys nearby and joined them.

On the walk back, we ran into the rest of the group, this time with a new girl from Canada who also happened to live in Toronto. For whatever reason, something clicked immediately. Some people feel instantly familiar.

Back at the hostel, we all sat on the couches together talking, reflecting, laughing. At some point the conversation dissolved and we each drifted onto our phones while music played in the background.

Nothing needed to be said.

The presence of one another was enough.

I think I’ll carry that with me for a long time.

There was even a moment when we noticed two little lizards playing above our heads, and all of us stopped to watch them in delight.

It sounds small.

It was small.

And it was perfect.

That night, the new Toronto girl was in my dorm.

We talked until the lights were finally turned off.

She told me she wished we had met earlier, because her trip was only just beginning and she still had a week left. I told her my shuttle was leaving at 1 p.m. the next day, but before I left, I wanted one last morning at the beach.

She said she’d come with me.

So the next morning, it was the two of us and our Quebec friend - who by then felt more like a brother than someone I had met days ago.

We sat in the sun.

We played in the water.

We laughed in that easy way people do once introductions are no longer necessary.

In the middle of it all, I convinced her to reroute part of her trip so she could meet me again for the final leg of mine.

And she did.

By the time my shuttle arrived, I already knew I’d be seeing her again in a few days. In the meantime, she would continue enjoying the sun and I passed the baton over to her to become besties with my Quebec friend.

Leaving was harder than I expected.

There were hugs coming from every direction, kind wishes layered over one another, people waving as if we had known each other much longer than we had.

And maybe that is the strange generosity of travel.

Sometimes people are placed in your life for only a few days, yet leave with pieces of you all the same.

I couldn’t have asked for a better beginning.

And if Costa Rica changed something in me, I think it started there.

In Tamarindo.

With strangers who no longer feel like strangers at all.