I remember meeting Todd on Tinder.
He wasn’t conventionally attractive, but there was something rough, edgy, and outdoorsy about him that drew me in—think Jason Momoa adjacent, minus the Momoa. Despite being half white and half Colombian, he read as very much just white.
With the exception of my previous two relationships, I had only ever dated Mormon boys. Todd was the complete opposite—so far from Mormon that he often seemed to outright despise it, based on the things he’d say while we were dating.
What I didn’t realize at the time was that I was already in my deconstruction phase of Mormonism. I hadn’t been to church in years, but I still felt a strong pull to figure out where I stood with religion as a whole—the questions had grown too big to ignore. What happens after this life? Why do people do bad things? Why are we here, and what is the purpose of it all? Like many people leaving a high-demand religion, I struggled to understand who I was outside of it.
Todd doesn’t know this, but he played a significant role in dismantling my once-rigid worldview and Mormon ideals. He became the catalyst for that exploration. And even though he was the worst person I’ve dated, I’ll always be grateful for what that relationship set in motion.
I had Tinder earlier in the year but deactivated it after realizing I was only using it for validation. I wasn’t serious about meeting anyone in a meaningful way. The ego boost and attention from matches and messages can be intoxicating—but it’s a false pretense.
This time, I wanted to be intentional. I set a standard for myself: I wouldn’t meet up with anyone until we had been talking for at least two weeks. I hoped this would protect me from the all-too-common hookup culture and situationships that feel almost expected on dating apps. I wanted to create an expectation of consistency and communication—something worthy of even entertaining anything physical. And by physical, I don’t mean sex. My presence is a gift. If you’re dating me, that has to be earned. I went in knowing I wanted something serious.
I scrolled through Todd’s photos. My favorite was one where he was clean-shaven and looked noticeably younger—his eyes lighter, his expression softer, almost happy. There was another selfie of him mountain biking that I didn’t care for as much; I wasn’t into beards at the time. Still, I liked his overall look—his long, dark eyebrows, his height, his vibe.
His bio gave just enough: he was from San Jose, California, went to SJU, and had a Bachelor of Arts degree—something in the creative arts, possibly photography.
He had his Instagram linked, public of course, so I took a look. There were photos of cycling adventures, live concerts and music venues, skateboarding—and one mosh pit video that gave me the ick. His following-to-follower ratio was questionable, but I didn’t care much for social media enough to let that matter.
It was the week of Thanksgiving break, and my mom was coming into town. I was excited. We were planning a trip down to St. George to visit her family, and I was genuinely looking forward to it. It was a short week at work, my mom was visiting, I had just started talking to someone new, and we were spending the holiday in St. George. Life felt good.
Todd and I texted all day, every day. He’d send me good morning texts—ones I really looked forward to—and we’d joke about how obvious it must have been to everyone around us that we were smiling at our phones nonstop, our cheeks hurting from it. The feeling wasn’t new exactly, but it had been a long time since I’d felt that honeymoon-phase excitement—the kind where you’re genuinely eager to hear from someone again. I loved that phase.
Todd told me he remembered matching with me earlier in the year, sometime in the spring. We’d bonded over volleyball, and he had asked if I wanted to play at a nearby sand court. At the time, I wasn’t serious about meeting anyone, so I ghosted—though, in my defense, I had deleted the app altogether.
I thought it was cute that he remembered me and what felt like such an inconsequential conversation. I remembered him mentioning he was new in town, having just moved from California. I’m glad that didn’t deter him from reaching out again.
Looking back, it’s kind of funny that he suggested volleyball, knowing what I know now. He doesn’t have great coordination—he may kick ass as a bike mechanic, but sand volleyball as a first date would’ve been awkward. Cycling, though, fits him perfectly.
He was tall—6’8”, to be exact, which he included in his bio—very slim, with dark features, wavy dark brown hair, strong eyebrows, and a beard I would soon come to love.
Once, Todd asked if I wanted him to shave his beard, and he did. The clean-shaven look didn’t suit him; it felt off. He was already noticeably tall and lanky—awkward even—but I couldn’t be mad because I had told him I liked him clean-shaven, referencing an old college photo.
He joked that the guy at 7-Eleven didn’t recognize him and seemed creeped out. It made me laugh. I loved when he’d tell me these small, mundane details about his day. I was so into him—though, looking back, I wish I’d felt it as deeply as I expressed it.
We were opposites in many ways, and while our differences excited me, that feeling wasn’t mutual. I think my differences pushed him away. I could feel it whenever I talked about things I was passionate about or shared perspectives shaped by my experiences.
I remember one time talking about my LDS mission. He was slumped over in bed, half-asleep, pretending to listen. Hurt, I called him out. Suddenly, he was crying, talking about his depression. I felt guilty and dropped it. I never brought up my mission again.
I didn’t expect him to fully understand my experiences—I just wanted him to be present, to listen, to want to understand me. I never got that. The relationship was deeply one-sided.
He benefitted constantly from me listening to his life, his desires, his thoughts, his worldview. But whenever I tried to share intimate parts of myself—anything beyond my body—I was met with criticism, sarcasm, disapproval, or dismissal. Over time, I became a shell of myself.
He was never open about how he felt about me. Compliments were rare, and when they came, they felt forced and awkward, as if expressing appreciation didn’t come naturally to him.
I noticed myself shrinking to be with him. I’d be in a great mood, but once he came around, the energy shifted. The air felt heavy, damp, suffocating. Being with someone so negative slowly drained the life out of me.