At some point in college, many friend groups assign roles to one another. “She’s always in a relationship.” “He just doesn’t date.” “He's always seeing someone but can never commit.” While not always intentional, the labels stick. There’s the hopeless romantic, the serial dater, the one stuck in the friend zone. These roles get repeated so often that they start to sound factual — like personality traits rather than temporary circumstances. The problem comes when these categories stop just describing us, but instead start to define us.
Modern dating culture has turned identity into a game of categories. We label ourselves and each other, organizing our romantic lives into neat little archetypes that make the chaos of dating feel easier to understand. If someone in your friend group is known for always having a boyfriend, every new partner feels like proof that the preconception was right all along. Every bad date for an “always single” friend becomes further confirmation of their supposed destiny. The identities reinforce themselves until they feel permanent.
These labels stick so easily because our identities are uncertain projects in our early twenties. College is a time defined by not knowing — where you’ll live, what you’ll pursue or who you’ll become. When everything else feels unstable, labels become comforting. Being “the serial dater” or “the single one” turns the fundamental randomness of life into an easy-to-follow narrative, both for you and for everyone else.
But these identities often do not hold water. The friend who “always has a boyfriend” might have simply met two compatible people in a row. The “always single” friend might have had one bad breakup their first year and then spent time focusing on other things. Most of these roles are based on tiny samples of our lives, mere circumstantial evidence that gets extrapolated into entire archetypes. Once the label sticks, it becomes hard to escape.
Psychologists have long documented something called the self-fulfilling prophecy: When we are repeatedly told something about ourselves, we internalize it and behave in ways that make it true. For instance, a “single friend” might assume things won’t work out anyway and invest less emotional energy in new connections. The “relationship person” might cling to partnerships longer than they should because that identity has become part of how they understand themself. Dating identities are particularly vulnerable to this effect because they shape how we approach relationships before they even begin.
There’s a larger cultural force feeding this obsession with labels. Modern life, particularly the internet, loves hyper-specific identities: niche aesthetics, personality types, dating archetypes and relationship micro-labels. On the surface, these communities promise belonging. Find the right label, find your people.
And sometimes that’s genuinely helpful. Having language for our experiences can make us feel less alone. It can provide community, especially during periods of uncertainty. But there’s a downside to this constant categorization. The more specifically we label ourselves, the less flexible those labels are. Instead of seeing identity as something which is constantly evolving, we start to defend it like territory. And once identity hardens, the opportunity for fluidity disappears.
Your early twenties are supposed to be messy. You’re supposed to try things, misjudge people, fall for the wrong person, change your mind, learn what you like then realize you were wrong about that too. Dating at this stage should not have any bearing on your identity — it’s just part of the process of figuring out who you are, and there is nothing wrong with not knowing.
In fact, the willingness to exist without a fixed label is one of the healthiest ways to approach relationships. It leaves room for surprise. The chronically single person might suddenly fall in love. The friend who always dates might take time for themselves. Entire narratives can change with one unexpected connection, but those possibilities are harder to see when everyone around you is reinforcing the same “truth.” When we constantly describe our friends through romantic identities, we turn them into characters rather than real-life, evolving people.
Encouraging each other to resist these roles doesn’t mean abandoning community or shared experiences. It simply means recognizing that identities should be expansive rather than restrictive. They should help us understand ourselves, not trap us inside expectations.
Because the truth is that none of us have been dating long enough to know what kind of person we are when in love. We’re all still figuring it out — and that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be.
In her column, “Organic Chemistry,” Anusha Gupta ’25 MD’29 deals with the toughest sex and relationship questions on College Hill. Please submit your love related inquiries for her to address here. She can be reached at anusha_gupta@brown.edu. Please send responses to this opinion to letters@browndailyherald.com and other op-eds to opinions@browndailyherald.com.
