how to not be jaded and unhappy

“When did you give up on your dreams?”

As I pass a bag of white powder between a few boys I’ve known for years – who could still be considered strangers – I’m hit with a question I hadn’t expected to consider.

When did I give up on my dreams? 

I couldn’t help but wonder: do we give up on our dreams, or do they quietly give up on us? Or maybe, like a perfectly tailored jacket that no longer fits, they simply adjust themselves. As I glanced around at the faces gathered around my kitchen island, I realized there might be more shattered dreams swirling in the air than shot glasses clinking on the counter.

“I’m not sure if I gave up on my dreams, or if I just became too jaded to pursue them.” I answer.

My father once said to me, “If you don’t have any expectations, you can’t be disappointed.” I always thought that was the saddest statement anyone could make. It sounded like a death sentence for dreaming, a prohibition against reaching for the stars or hoping for more. I thought it meant I was supposed to settle, to accept life exactly as it came, unremarkable and unchanging. But over time, I realized it wasn’t about giving up on aspirations—it was about letting go of the need to control outcomes. It was an invitation to savor the now, to embrace the moment for what it is, instead of worrying about what it might—or might not—bring.

After a decade in this city, disappointment and I have become more than well-acquainted. We’ve dated, broken up, and gotten back together more than twice. I can’t help but wonder if, somewhere along the way, I’ve quietly benched myself from a few games—just to avoid the possibility of disappointment and I rekindling our toxic situationship.

“It’s hard because I feel like no one here really wants to get to know you, they just want something from you,” another boy says. 

He’s not wrong. 

In a city full of dream chasers and Instagram filters, finding real connections shouldn’t be as hard as it is—but somehow, it’s almost impossible. LA is packed with transplants, all here chasing their own versions of success. While I don’t have an overflowing group chat filled with best friends, I do have my people. The ones I can text at 2 a.m. when I’m spiraling, who call me out when I’m being ridiculous, and let me vent without judgment. They remind me that even in a city this big, it’s possible to feel seen.

It takes years to find the people you’d call family. It takes heartbreak, loss, and lessons you never signed up for. Eventually, you learn to trust your gut—because deep down, you always know who’s worth your trust and who isn’t.

“Sometimes it seems like nobody’s real.”

“It’s like, when you speak with people, they don’t see you, they’re looking through you at something else.”

There’s truth to the saying about feeling alone in a crowded room—or like you’re at the center of a party, watching it unfold from behind glass. It’s easy to believe everyone else has it all figured out, living the perfect life you wish you had. But the truth? Most of us are just as lonely and anxious as the next person. What would happen if we all stopped pretending and let our masks fall?

In a city built on illusions, how do you know when it’s time to stop searching for something real?

***

Out of breath, I lower my legs and receive a kiss that feels more like a gift with purchase than an indulgent splurge.

“I’ll get you a towel,” says my Neighbor whose name I heard once but have never taken the time to remember. I lay and try to position myself selectively as to not drip all over his sheets. “Here,” he says, handing me a white hand towel.

“Thank you.” I say, casually wiping the cumshot off my stomach. We exchange smiles—a familiar, almost transactional moment by now. While Neighbor is attractive, and I’m a big fan of his dick, I haven’t spent much time getting to know him—mostly because the few things I do know irritate me endlessly. He’s one of those guys with an overly manufactured face and an obsession with making sure you know he has money, as if that’s his entire personality. Beyond the designer labels and curated image, I’m not convinced there’s much else to discover.

“What do you have going on the rest of the day, baby?” he asks, his voice lingering in that way that makes it sound like he’s hoping I’ll stick around a little longer.

I’m already halfway down the stairs, my eyes scanning the space like a detective on the hunt for something—a piece of me that was left behind when I walked in.

“I’ve got work in a few hours,” I say, distracted, as I peer over the couch. Nope. No sign. I move toward the bathroom door—nothing there either. And then, just as I’m starting to lose hope, I spot them: my basketball shorts, tossed behind the bar in the kitchen. Perfect.

“That’s cool, we should do this again soon. I’ve missed your ass,” Neighbor says as I dress myself presentable enough to take the elevator back up to my place.

“We should,” I say and give him a peck on the lips, “I missed you too.” I add for good measure. We share eye contact for a moment that feels almost too meaningful. Just before he can say something that might conjure emotion I say; “I love your marble backsplash. Wish I had that in my unit.”

This catches him off guard enough that all he can get out is, “uh, yeah thanks.”

“Bye, I’ll see you soon!” I call to him as I slip out the front door.

Now, let me be clear: I am not a monster. When it comes to my Neighbor, I’ve tried—really tried—to make him more than just a blur of physicality. I’ve hung out with him after sex, we’ve cuddled, even ordered takeout like some kind of domestic dream. We’ve attempted to watch Bravo, but every time his vapid, materialistic side rears its ugly head, and I find myself checking my phone or contemplating starting a fire in his bathroom so I can make a quick escape. I’m not heartless, I’m just practical. Does it make me a bad person that I want a sex friend, and only a sex friend, without the obligation of endless conversation about his designer sneakers? I think not.

It does make me wonder though – about disappointment. About my twisted, complicated relationship with disappointment. Am I having sex with a man I hate because I know he can’t hurt me? Am I keeping myself from falling for someone that I could genuinely like because all of my sexual energy is being thrown into a meaningless void?

Maybe it’s because I’ve been crushed by so many men I’ve dared to care for that the thought of being with another feels like leaping off a cliff—through a bed of thorns, into a pool of molten lava. Yeah, that sounds about right.

Maybe this is what I’ve come to. Maybe this is the final level. Meaningless sex with men I hate because men I like always disappoint me.

I think about what my father used to say: “If you don’t have any expectations, you can’t be disappointed.” So, is that it? Am I expecting too much from the men I date? Has it become too much to ask for something that feels real, for feelings to be reciprocated without the underlying sense of inevitable letdown? 

At what point does having no expectations hinder your chances of getting what you want? 

At some point you have to stop being so afraid of your own feelings that you allow yourself to have what you want.

I toss my keys onto the kitchen counter, the clink of metal echoing in the quiet of my apartment. My mind drifts back to that group of boys from a few nights ago, each one confessing how alone they feel, how they’ve abandoned their dreams, how lost and hopeless they feel. And in that moment, something unexpected hits me—a wave of gratitude. For the people in my life, the ones who remind me, in their own messy, beautiful ways, that I am exactly where I’m supposed to be.  No matter how chaotic things may look from the outside, they ground me. They make me remember that I’m on the right path, even when it doesn’t measure up to my own expectations.

How do you keep from turning into a bitter old bitch at the end of the bar, clutching a vodka soda and rolling your eyes at the world? How do you hold onto happiness when every man, every date, every moment feels like another potential letdown? Maybe it’s about finding pleasure in the little things—like a deep laugh with a good friend or a perfect dirty martini—and accepting that life is one long parade of chaos. You just have to strut through it, and know you’ll probably fall.