Story Of A Mimic

On May 23, 2025, I woke up to a Facebook message from a woman we’ll call A.

But before we begin there, we need to back up for a moment.

In November of 2023, my very high-conflict divorce was still dragging through the court system. After ten years married to someone in active addiction, I had finally made the decision to leave.

My ex-husband was not a bad human.

But he was a bad drunk.

There is a difference.

Alcohol had hollowed him out. Beneath the surface lived resentment, frustration, insecurity, anger, and emotional volatility that often landed directly on me. For years, I carried the emotional weight of trying to fix what could not be fixed. I thought if I could just find the right sentence, with the right words, in the right order, delivered in the right tone, he would finally understand the damage being done.

He never did.

By the time I officially filed for divorce, the marriage had already been emotionally dead for years. The paperwork simply arrived long after the grieving process had begun.

Eighteen months later, after therapy, healing, rebuilding, and learning how to breathe again, my friends convinced me I might finally be ready to start dating.

I had no idea where to begin.

How exactly do you meet someone when you’re raising four children, running a business, don’t drink, and spend most of your free time either working, lifting weights, or sitting quietly at home like a boring little woodland creature?

“You date online,” they told me.

I thought online dating sounded like digital hell.

They insisted I was being pessimistic.

After all, somebody’s cousin’s friend’s coworker’s sister had apparently met the love of her life online, so why not me?

So we built the profile.

And within two hours, I had over 80 notifications.

Instead of feeling hopeful, I felt disgusted.

The algorithm was so transparent to me. Dopamine. Validation. Artificial urgency. Tiny little hits designed to keep lonely people endlessly swiping like gamblers pulling slot machine levers.

My friend rolled her eyes and told me I was adorable and cynical.

Maybe she was right.

Still, I hated the idea of shopping for human beings like I was scrolling Amazon reviews for my next life partner.

Tall.

Dark.

Handsome.

Add to cart.

Hopefully includes emotional intelligence and basic honesty.

I don’t really have a physical type anyway.

I’m into hearts.

Alignment.

Intelligence.

Curiosity.

Depth.

Kindness.

Over the years, that man has worn many different faces.

So that night, instead of wasting my time discussing favorite movies and vacation spots with strangers, I created a system.

Five hard-hitting questions.

No softballs.

The goal was simple:

eliminate anyone wasting my time.

We sent the same message to twelve men that first night:

“Happy Saturday. I think it’s cool we matched lol. This app feels like a weird way to meet people, so how about we play a game?

Five hard-hitting questions back and forth.

No softballs.

Impress me with your depth.

You can tap out anytime, but I’m looking for alignment. If we make it to the end and we’re both still interested, I’ll give you my number.

You win the next move.”

Twelve men received the message.

Only four replied.

Which immediately told me eight men who claimed they wanted “long-term partnership” were unwilling to participate in a single meaningful conversation.

Interesting statistic.

The first question was:

“What do you do to meet and satisfy your own needs in life?”

Two men immediately sexualized the question.

Eliminated.

One man explained that he mostly worked, had recently left a long-term relationship, didn’t really have hobbies, and thought maybe having a woman around would make life more interesting.

I resisted the urge to tell him he needed a therapist, a dog, and a hobby before he needed a girlfriend.

And then there was the other man.

He talked about pottery classes with his daughter.

Walking trails with his dogs.

Books.

Meditation.

Hunting.

Spirituality.

There was overlap everywhere.

He seemed thoughtful.

Grounded.

Intentional.

Interesting.

So I asked the next question:

“Tell me about the last time you prayed. What God did you pray to? What does your relationship with God look like?”

Because I love Jesus.

Not performative religion.

Not church politics.

Not empty moral theater.

Jesus.

That mattered to me.

The first man admitted spirituality played little role in his life.

Fair enough.

No alignment.

I wished him well.

The second man told me he admired the teachings of Jesus deeply, believed spirituality mattered, but thought organized religion often distorted truth.

And just like that, the conversation deepened.

By the end of the night, we had spent nearly five straight hours talking.

About relationships.

Healing.

Pornography.

Trauma.

Meaning.

Human behavior.

What people misunderstand about us.

It was one of the best conversations I had ever had with a stranger.

At 1 a.m., I gave him my phone number.

I went to bed thinking maybe — just maybe — my friends had been right.

Between Sunday and Thursday, we texted constantly.

There was banter.

Flirting.

Curiosity.

Ease.

By Wednesday, he told me he had upgraded our coffee date to a full date and asked if he could pick me up.

I told him absolutely not.

I was not letting a stranger from the internet pick me up at my home.

I explained that trust took a long time for me and that I was brand new to dating again.

He told me he respected that and asked what would make me comfortable.

So I told him.

You can do a background check.

You can meet my friends.

You can share your location.

And before you kiss me, you can provide a clean STD screen.

I also made it very clear:

I was celibate.

I only did monogamy.

And I was dating for partnership and alignment.

These were not casual asks.

Honestly, part of me expected him to laugh and disappear.

Instead, he complied with every single thing.

Without hesitation.

Looking back now, that’s one of the most haunting parts.

Because intentional people can build beautiful things.

But manipulative people can perform intentionality too.

At the time, I interpreted his willingness as maturity.

Safety.

Integrity.

Healing.

He was ten years older than me, and I remember thinking he seemed like someone who had truly done the work on himself.

He was nerdy.

Slightly awkward.

Guarded.

Introverted.

He preferred his dogs and the woods to crowds and parties.

I found it endearing.

Our first date was fantastic.

He listened closely.

Asked thoughtful questions.

Remembered details.

Held eye contact.

Created emotional safety.

There was chemistry.

Connection.

Alignment.

After dinner, we sat talking longer in my friend’s garage.

And at one point, I asked him directly:

“What are your motives?”

He looked almost hurt.

“What do you mean?”

I pressed again.

“If you’re just trying to get laid, be honest about that. That’s not my thing. Just level with me.”

And I will never forget the look he gave me.

His eyes softened.

He almost looked sad for me.

“What if somebody doesn’t have an angle?” he asked quietly. “What if they just genuinely want to get to know you?”

I felt embarrassed instantly.

Like my trauma was leaking all over someone kind.

I told him I didn’t trust him.

And he smiled gently and said:

“That’s okay. You shouldn’t. You don’t know me yet. We can move as slowly as you need.”

He told me he liked leaving things better than he found them.

He sympathized with the damage my marriage had done to my nervous system.

How years of addiction, lies, emotional neglect, and gaslighting had made trust difficult.

He spoke about honesty and patience like they were sacred values.

I was blown away by him.

I remember thinking:

Maybe good men really do exist.

I made it clear I did not do physical intimacy until I was in love.

He laughed softly and told me he didn’t even think about sex until after the 21st date.

That he liked intentional connection.

That he valued emotional intimacy first.

It completely disarmed me.

Especially because so many men are aggressively forward.

I actually felt guilty for questioning him so hard.

Ashamed that my trauma had made me suspicious of someone who appeared so emotionally safe.

What I did not know in that moment—

What I would not learn until May 23, 2025—

Was that while he was sitting across from me telling me how trustworthy, healed, intentional, and emotionally available he was…

he was already five years into a relationship with A.

And there would be other women too.

There was never a single moment in our relationship where it was only us.