The Night I Saw Them on the Apps—and Set One Clear Boundary
Finding Clarity in the 11:47 p.m. App Glow
You’re a London 20-something/early-30-something with a grown-up job, but one Hinge/Bumble sighting turns you into full detective mode—Sunday Scaries, but make it dating.
Taylor didn’t say it like a joke when she booked with me. She said it like a confession you whisper to your ceiling because you don’t want your own flat to hear you: “I saw them back on the apps. What boundary do I set?”
On our call, she described the moment with the kind of detail people only remember when their nervous system has taken a screenshot.
“It was 11:47 PM,” she told me. “Zone 2. I was propped against pillows. The duvet was warm, my phone was warm, and the whole room had that blue glow. I opened the app just to see—and their profile popped up again.”
She swallowed. Even through the screen I could see her jaw working, like it was trying to chew through a thought. “My chest went cold. And then I did the thing I hate. I flipped to Notes. I stared at a half-written message. I rewrote it. Deleted it. Rewrote it. Like… I’m competent at work. I’m a UX designer. But in dating I turn into an intern with no authority.”
There was embarrassment in the way she laughed—small and sharp. Not funny, but reflexive. The laugh you do when your dignity is sitting right next to you and you can’t meet its eyes.
Her core tug-of-war was already right there: she wanted clear exclusivity and self-respecting boundaries, but she was terrified that naming her needs would make her seem “too much” and cost her the connection.
I listened for the body story under her words—the part that always tells the truth first. Tight chest. Jaw tension. That restless thumb that wants one more refresh, one more clue, one more pixel of information to avoid one clean question.
“Taylor,” I said gently, “I’m not here to shame the detective mode. It’s a strategy your brain uses when it wants certainty but feels unsafe asking for it. But the cost is real. The app becomes a substitute for a conversation.”
I let that land, then I softened my voice the way I do when I’m inviting someone into the actual work. “Let’s make this a Journey to Clarity. Not a prediction about what they’ll do—an honest map of what you will and won’t participate in.”
Choosing the Compass: The Celtic Cross · Context Edition
I had her take one slow breath with me—not as a mystical ritual, just as a psychological doorway. The kind of breath that tells your nervous system, we’re switching from spiralling to seeing.
While she exhaled, I shuffled. The sound is always grounding to me: cardstock against cardstock, like the world getting organised by small, deliberate friction.
“Today we’ll use a spread called the Celtic Cross · Context Edition,” I said. “It’s basically the classic Celtic Cross, but tuned to modern dating-app reality—so we can trace the loop from what you do in the moment, to what’s driving it, to what clean boundary-setting looks like in practice.”
If you’ve ever Googled how tarot works in a serious way, here’s the simplest version: the spread is a structure for context. It helps us separate (1) what’s happening, (2) what’s blocking clarity, (3) what’s underneath the behaviour, and (4) what you can actually do next. It’s less “fate” and more “pattern recognition with a flashlight.”
I pointed out the parts that mattered most for Taylor’s question: “The first card is the lived loop—what happens in your head and hands the minute you see their profile. The crossing card is the obstacle—what keeps you stuck in ambiguity. And the final card is integration—the boundary posture you can live with, even if the answer isn’t what you hoped.”
Reading the Map: From Detective Mode to Direct Language
Position 1: The loop you repeat in the first five minutes
“Now we turn over the card that represents what is happening right now in your behavior and headspace when you see them on dating apps—the lived moment you’re stuck in.”
The Two of Swords, reversed.
In the Rider–Waite image, she’s blindfolded, holding two swords crossed tight against her chest. Reversed, that stalemate starts leaking. The ‘I’m staying neutral’ pose becomes mental gridlock with tiny panic cracks in it.
“This is like what you described,” I told Taylor, “switching between the app and your Notes draft like it’s two tabs you can’t close. Half of you is trying to look calm. The other half is bracing for impact.”
I named the energy dynamic plainly: “This is blocked Air—thoughts moving fast, but not moving forward. It’s the kind of overthinking that feels like ‘research’ even while it keeps you blindfolded.”
Her mouth pulled into that bitter half-smile again. “That’s… meanly accurate,” she said, then let out a tight exhale that sounded like surrender in miniature.
And there it was—the inner monologue I hear so often in big-city dating, as familiar as the Northern line: If I ask, I lose them. If I don’t ask, I lose myself.
Position 2: The obstacle that keeps the grey zone alive
“Now we turn over the card that represents the main obstacle to clarity and boundary-setting—what keeps this ambiguous or keeps you from asking directly.”
Seven of Swords, upright.
In the image, someone is walking away with swords while looking back over their shoulder—checking reactions, keeping things half-said. In dating-app context, I don’t rush to label anyone a villain. But I do take the symbolism seriously: clarity won’t arrive through guessing. It won’t arrive through surveillance. It arrives through direct truth.
“This card is the fog machine,” I said. “Not necessarily malice—sometimes it’s just modern dating ambiguity. But it is a pattern where everyone has ‘signals’ and no one has agreements.”
I anchored it back to her reality: “This is the ‘active anxiety’ spiral—timestamps, profile reappearances, vague wording you can interpret three different ways. It’s like trying to do QA testing on a relationship: you keep reproducing the ‘bug’ instead of updating the product requirements. And your nervous system is exhausted.”
Taylor gave a small wince, then nodded once. That nod was so quiet it felt like she was trying not to disturb the truth.
Position 3: The deeper driver under the checking impulse
“Now we turn over the card that represents the deeper driver under the app-checking impulse—the attachment need the behavior is trying to soothe.”
The Devil, reversed.
Reversed Devil is one of my favourite kinds of honesty because it doesn’t moralise. It simply says: you can see the chain now. And when you can see it, you can test whether it’s actually locked.
“This is algorithm anxiety,” I said. “Your brain thinks the next scroll will deliver the answer. Not because you’re dramatic—because checking gives you a quick hit of control.”
I slowed down. “Let me ask you the only Devil question that matters: when the urge hits, what are you hoping the check will solve in the next 30 seconds?”
Taylor’s reaction came in a three-step sequence I’ve learned to trust more than anyone’s polished explanation.
First: her breath paused, like she’d been caught mid-refresh. Second: her eyes unfocused, as if a memory replayed behind her forehead—thumb scrolling, chest tight, Notes draft deleting itself. Third: her shoulders dropped half an inch and she said, quietly, “I’m hoping it’ll prove I’m not foolish.”
“That’s the root,” I said. “And it’s why I want you to remember this line: Clarity isn’t found on their profile. It’s created in your standards.”
Position 4: The past influence that set up the ambiguity
“Now we turn over the card that represents the prior dynamic that shaped today’s ambiguity—where terms or expectations stayed unspoken.”
The Lovers, reversed.
“This is chemistry without a spoken contract,” I said. “Not fake intimacy—real intimacy. But misalignment, or at least an unspoken agreement you both acted like existed.”
I watched her eyes flick up, then down, the way people look when they’re remembering a moment they didn’t fully name at the time: staying over, texting daily, that soft “we’re basically together” feeling that was never actually said out loud.
“When you find them on the apps after that,” I added, “it hits like betrayal—even if, technically, nothing was agreed. That’s why it hurts. It’s the gap between what you assumed the connection meant and what was actually spoken.”
Position 5: The conscious aim—what you’re trying to create
“Now we turn over the card that represents what you’re trying to create through a boundary—the standard you want to live by.”
Justice, upright.
Justice always feels like a clean interface to me—fewer words, clearer intent. Scales in one hand, sword in the other: fairness plus directness.
“Here’s the turning point,” I said. “Justice doesn’t ask, ‘What does it mean that they’re on Hinge?’ Justice asks, ‘What do I require in order to keep investing here?’”
I gave her a mini-script right away, because Justice is practical like that: “One boundary sentence. One question sentence. No screenshots. No cross-exam.”
Taylor physically shifted in her chair. It wasn’t dramatic—just a subtle sit-up-straighter ‘click.’
“Oh,” she said, like she’d found a lever. “So it’s not about catching them. It’s… about making a policy.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Exclusivity isn’t a vibe. It’s a clear policy you both agree to.”
Position 6: The near-future impulse—how the conversation wants to happen
“Now we turn over the card that represents the next likely emotional/communication impulse you’ll feel—how you might move toward a conversation.”
Knight of Swords, upright.
“This is the ‘send’ finger hovering,” I said. “Momentum. Truth-chasing. The part of you that wants an answer now.”
The energy here is excess Air—too much speed, not enough structure. “Knight of Swords can become a trial,” I warned her. “Rapid-fire questions, receipts, tone you can’t unsay.”
I held her gaze through the screen. “We’re going to borrow the Knight’s courage, but we’re going to give it Justice’s spine.”
Position 7: Self—what you need to embody to set the boundary cleanly
“Now we turn over the card that represents how you’re showing up and what you need to embody—your role in the pattern.”
Strength, reversed.
Strength reversed is that specific kind of self-doubt: brave in private, accommodating out loud. The ‘cool girl’ anxiety in a single image.
“You don’t lack courage,” I said. “You lack permission. You keep trying to win safety by shrinking your need.”
Taylor’s eyes watered, not in a tearful way—more like the body’s reaction when a truth finally stops being wrestled with and starts being held. “I hate how accurate that is,” she whispered.
“Warm-hearted doesn’t have to mean vague,” I reminded her.
Position 8: Environment—the social noise around you
“Now we turn over the card that represents the dating-app/social context around you—norms, noise, and outside influence shaping what feels ‘normal.’”
Three of Cups, reversed.
“This is the group chat screenshot audit,” I said, and Taylor’s laugh this time was genuinely amused—because yes, of course it was. “It’s Shoreditch pub talk about keeping options open. It’s TikTok dating advice rabbit holes. It’s the whole cultural soundtrack that makes you feel like wanting clarity is ‘uncool.’”
The energy here is distraction. “Reversed Three of Cups can be triangulation,” I added. “Too many opinions. Noise over signal. And when self-trust is low, the crowd’s norms can drown out your actual preference.”
Position 9: Hopes and fears—the desire for mutuality
“Now we turn over the card that represents your hope for mutuality and your fear of what the truth might reveal once you ask directly.”
Two of Cups, upright.
“This is what you actually want,” I said. “Mutual choice. Reciprocity. A relationship as an agreement, not a guessing game.”
She nodded, almost impatiently. Like: yes. Obviously. Why does it feel so hard to ask for the simplest thing?
“And the fear,” I continued, “is that naming this will force the story to show its hand. That you’ll hear, clearly, ‘I don’t choose you.’”
Taylor stared at the card on her side of the screen. “That’s… exactly it,” she said. “It’s not the app. It’s what the app might be proving.”
When the Queen of Swords Spoke: No More Negotiating with Hints
Position 10: Integration—your most empowering boundary posture
I let the room go quieter before we turned the final card. Even on Zoom, you can feel it when someone is standing at the edge of saying something that will change their life in a small, permanent way.
“Now we turn over the card that represents the most empowering integration—the boundary posture and communication style that restores self-respect and clarity.”
Queen of Swords, upright.
The Queen sits high, clouds behind her, sword upright. Her other hand is open—not soft, but fair. The message isn’t cruelty. It’s clean truth.
This is where I brought in my signature lens—because the Queen of Swords has always reminded me of classic cinema at its sharpest: the moment at the airport when two people finally stop improvising and say the real thing.
“Taylor,” I said, “do you know the last scene of Casablanca? Not the romance—what it models. It’s not a debate. It’s not a case file. It’s a clear decision with dignity.”
I used what I call my Iconic Line Diagnosis—a way of defining a relationship dynamic with one line that becomes a compass. “In your story, the iconic line isn’t ‘Here’s looking at you, kid.’ It’s something like: ‘I can be warm, and I can be clear.’ That’s Queen energy. That’s adult dating.”
Setup
For weeks, you’ve been trapped in the same loop: it’s 11:38 PM, you’re in bed in London with one lamp on, thumb hovering over the app—telling yourself you’re “just checking,” while Notes holds a draft you’ve rewritten five different ways. You’re trying to avoid being “too much,” but you’re paying for it with your peace.
Delivery
Stop negotiating with hints and start speaking cleanly—hold your sword upright like the Queen of Swords, and let clarity come from what you’re willing to name and follow through on.
Reinforcement
Taylor’s face did something I’ve learned to recognise as the exact moment a pattern loses its glamour.
First, she went still—chin lifted, eyes wide, like her brain had temporarily stopped trying to outsmart the situation. Then her gaze slid off-screen, unfocused, like she was replaying every time she’d rewritten the same text while pretending she was “fine.” Finally, the tension in her jaw softened. Not fully—just enough that you could see the difference between holding your breath and letting yourself breathe.
“But if I say it cleanly,” she blurted, and here was the unexpected reaction—heat instead of relief, anger instead of softness—“doesn’t that mean I’ve been… wrong? Like I’ve been letting this happen.”
I didn’t rush to soothe her out of that. “It means you’ve been doing what a lot of smart, kind people do when they’re scared of rejection,” I said. “You tried to collect proof so you’d feel allowed to ask for what you want. But you don’t need a case file to ask for what you want.”
“And here’s the core,” I added, guiding her into the actual aha moment. “A boundary isn’t a demand for certainty—it’s you naming what you’ll participate in, and choosing what you can actually follow through on.”
I offered her a concrete practice—because Queen of Swords is not just insight; she’s execution. “Let’s do the 10-minute One Sentence + One Next Step drill once, then stop. Set a timer. Write one clean standard: ‘I’m looking for exclusivity if we keep seeing each other.’ Write one neutral question: ‘Are you open to being exclusive now?’ Write one next step you can honour: ‘If not, I’ll step back from dating you and wish you well.’ Then put your phone face-down for 60 seconds and notice your jaw, chest, shoulders.”
I watched her try it in real time. Her shoulders sank like she’d put down a bag she’d forgotten she was carrying.
“Now,” I said softly, “use this new perspective and think back: last week, was there a moment when this insight could’ve changed how you felt—when you were scrolling for proof instead of naming your standard?”
She blinked hard. “Monday morning,” she said. “Kettle hissing. Grey light. I checked. I felt sick. If I’d had this sentence then… I would’ve just—known what I was doing.”
That was the shift: from tight vigilance to grounded self-respect. From monitoring for certainty to stating one clear boundary and asking one direct question.
The One Clean Question Method: Actionable Next Steps
I gathered the whole spread into one story for her—because this is where tarot becomes practical, not poetic.
“Here’s what the cards are saying,” I told Taylor. “The Two of Swords reversed is you freezing and over-editing because you’re trying to be ‘chill’ and safe at the same time. The Seven of Swords is the ambiguity that lets you keep guessing instead of knowing. The Devil reversed is the checking ritual—control masquerading as relief. The Lovers reversed explains how intimacy grew faster than agreements. Justice is your turning point: standards over surveillance. And the Queen of Swords is your integration: warm-hearted, not vague.”
“Your cognitive blind spot,” I added carefully, “is thinking you need proof before you’re allowed to ask. But boundaries don’t come from evidence. They come from self-respect.”
Then I gave her what she came for: clear, low-drama next steps she could actually do in a high-cost, high-noise city with a job and a nervous system.
- Save the two-sentence boundary scriptWrite this exactly and save it where you can grab it: “I like seeing you. If we keep dating, I’m looking for exclusivity—are you open to that?”If you feel the urge to add receipts (“I saw you on Hinge at 2am”), stop. Keep it to two sentences max. If live feels too intense, send a voice note under 20 seconds.
- Ask once—when you’re not mid-spiralPick a specific time (e.g., Wednesday after work before dinner) and ask the question once. No app-checking beforehand. No group chat pre-brief.Treat it like a calendar invite: a real conversation, not tea leaves in DMs. The goal is clarity, not control.
- Decide your follow-through in advanceWrite one next step you can honour if the answer is “no” or “not sure” (e.g., “I’ll step back from dating you and move on,” or “I’ll take space and revisit in two weeks”).This is the Queen’s secret: a boundary isn’t a threat—it’s a choice you can actually honour. If they dodge or mock you, you don’t argue. You say, “Got it—thanks for being honest,” and you step back.
A Week Later: The Quiet Proof of Self-Respect
A week later, Taylor messaged me—no long paragraph, no spiralling preface. Just one line: “I asked. Two sentences. My voice shook a little, but I didn’t explain.”
She told me she’d done something else too: a 24-hour no-check experiment. “The first few hours were horrible,” she admitted. “Like my thumb was looking for a door handle that wasn’t there. But then… I heard myself. I realised what I needed wasn’t more data. It was a decision.”
Her outcome wasn’t wrapped in a perfect bow—real life rarely is. She described sleeping a full night for the first time in weeks, then waking up with the thought, What if I was wrong?—and then, quieter: At least I’m not disappearing myself.
That’s what I mean when I say clarity is a journey. It’s not instant certainty. It’s a steadier connection to your own standards.
And if you’re reading this because you’re living some version of the same moment—seeing them back on dating apps after a good date, feeling stuck, feeling your jaw lock while you draft and delete—hold onto this: When you want to be chosen but you’re scared that naming your need will cost you the connection, your body ends up doing the talking—tight chest, clenched jaw, one more check—because silence feels safer than a clean answer.
If you let clarity come from what you’re willing to participate in (not what you can prove), what’s the smallest, calmest sentence you’d be willing to say this week?
