The Regulation Journal

There was a man once—a 42-year-old pansexual, bisexual, homoflexible presence on a dating app—who disappeared without explanation. No dramatic ending. No goodbye. Just absence.

At first, I felt foolish for missing him. After all, we hadn’t dated. We hadn’t built a future. We hadn’t even met. But the grief lingered, and I had to ask myself why.

The answer surprised me.

I didn’t miss him as a person. I missed what he represented.

He represented proof.

Proof that men could be calm. Proof that masculinity didn’t have to feel dangerous. Proof that emotional openness in men wasn’t theoretical—it existed.

When his profile disappeared, my mind tried to turn that loss into a story of scarcity. “That was your chance.” “You won’t meet another.” “Men like that are rare.” Trauma loves scarcity narratives because they keep us hypervigilant.

But scarcity is a lie trauma tells to maintain control.

The truth is that dating apps are revolving doors. People come and go constantly. Profiles disappear not because the people vanish from the world, but because life shifts. Overwhelm happens. Breaks are taken.

He was not the only man like himself. He was the first one I noticed.

This distinction matters. Because when we believe safety is rare, we cling. We grieve disproportionately. We fear loss before connection has even formed. Healing means challenging the idea that warmth is limited.

There are many men who carry gentle, pan-coded, emotionally open energy. They exist in queer spaces, creative communities, therapeutic settings, bookstores, coffee shops, writing circles, and everyday life. The more regulated you become, the easier it is to notice them.

I no longer see his disappearance as abandonment. I see it as an introduction. He showed me what was possible. And once you’ve seen something is possible, you cannot unsee it.

There will be more. Not replacements. Continuations.

Safety is not a single encounter. It is a pattern you learn to recognize.

And I am learning.