There is a quiet ache that settles into a relationship when you suspect you are not the point of it. You can feel it in the way they introduce you to their friends, a little too proudly, like you are a prized possession finally out of the box. You sense it in the careful curation of your life together for social media, the focus on the aesthetic rather than the authentic. It is the unsettling sensation of being a trophy, a shiny object on a shelf, acquired not for your soul but for the reflection you cast upon the acquirer.
For many women, this is not paranoia but a lived experience. It is the dawning realization that a partner is not in love with them, but with the idea of them. They are in love with the status you provide, the box you check on their list of life accomplishments. You might be the woman who completes the picture of a successful, enviable life. Your job, your looks, your social circle, your very presence becomes a prop in a one-person play where they are the star.
When a man dates for status, the woman becomes a mirror. He looks at her and sees a reflection of his own worth, his own success, his own place in the world. Every compliment feels like it is about him. “You’re so beautiful” can sometimes feel like “I am so impressive for having you.” Introducing you as “my girlfriend, the doctor” is less about celebrating your achievement and more about basking in the borrowed glow of it. The relationship becomes a transaction where your value is constantly being traded for his ego.
This dynamic is profoundly dehumanizing. To be loved for the status you confer is to be loved for something external, something that could be taken away. It means your thoughts, your fears, your dreams, your flaws, and your complexities are irrelevant. The real you—the woman who gets anxious before a big presentation, who cries at sad commercials, who has a bizarre obsession with true crime podcasts, who sometimes just wants to stay in bed all day—is invisible. What matters is the packaging.
A relationship built on this foundation is inherently unstable, not just for the woman, but for the man as well. It is a castle built on sand. The initial thrill of acquisition fades. The validation that came from showing you off eventually loses its power. And what is left? Two people who do not actually know each other, standing in the ruins of a performance. The woman is left feeling unseen and used, while the man is left wondering why the trophy no longer gleams.
What women truly want, what everyone truly wants, is to be chosen. Not chosen for the resume, or the dress size, or the Instagrammable moments. But chosen for the quiet, ordinary, and extraordinary person they are. To be loved is to be seen. It is to have someone look at you and love the person looking back, not the person the world sees when they look at you. It is to be the point of the story, not just a footnote in someone else’s quest for validation. And that is a kind of love that no amount of status can ever buy.