The First Woman I Dated After My Divorce Love-Bombed Me — & I Fell For It

After my divorce, I wasn’t exactly looking for love. I was looking for connection. Something fun. Someone who didn’t ask for much but offered a safe space to figure out who I was post-marriage. What I got was a whirlwind romance with a woman who swept me off my feet — only to drop me flat on my face.

It started fast. Too fast, in hindsight. She said she liked to go big when she cared about someone. I mistook that for kindness. She showered me with expensive gifts I never asked for: a designer bag and necklace, practically an entire new wardrobe with clothes that fit her taste, and she even offered to pay my monthly bill on a new three-row car so all four of our kids could fit. She booked a luxury weeklong trip to the Four Seasons in Cabo just two months after our first date. I kept thinking, Is this what queer love looks like? Is this how it’s supposed to feel?

As a lesbian newly navigating dating again, I wanted to believe this was just passionate sapphic energy. Women falling for women — isn’t that what the memes say? That we move fast, feel deeply, and merge lives within a month? Or three dates, as the U-Haul joke goes. I was cautious, but I also wanted that connection. After years of being emotionally sidelined in my marriage, being wanted so intensely felt... intoxicating.

But then came the confusion.

She’d tell me that I was the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen, but follow it up with telling me I should get a less boring haircut, try fillers in my laugh lines, gain some weight, and wear more stylish clothes. She’d plan a romantic getaway and then tell me she’s 100% in when we’re together but 75% out when we’re not. When I asked for clarity, she couldn’t explain it. All of that came with not-so-subtle reminders of her generosity. Was I asking for too much? Was I misinterpreting her grand gestures?

That’s the thing about love bombing: It disguises manipulation as romance. It's affection weaponized. It’s curated vulnerability designed to fast-track intimacy, only to yank it away when you start believing in it. She wasn’t falling in love with me. She was performing affection, and I was the audience — desperate for something real.

When she finally told me it wasn’t going to work — because, as she put it, I’m too basic, don’t have enough game or swag, live in the wrong city, and because she doesn’t find safety in stability (yes, one week after the beachside breakfast in bed and only a few days after meeting my kids) — I was crushed. Not just by losing her, but by realizing I had fallen for someone who never intended to catch me.

At the time, she hadn’t mentioned that while dating me, she was also trying to convince a woman in Australia (someone she had dated before me and still had feelings for) to quit her job and move in with her in Los Angeles, bills covered. I felt foolish. Ashamed. Like I should’ve known better, especially with all the red flags waving in my face the whole time.

That’s the thing about love bombing: It disguises manipulation as romance. It's affection weaponized. It’s curated vulnerability designed to fast-track intimacy, only to yank it away when you start believing in it.

I did get some solid solo pics from the Cabo trip for my dating profile, so at least there’s that.

I’m trying to be kinder to that version of myself — the one who was freshly wounded, open-hearted, and hopeful. That girl didn’t fall for the gifts. She fell for the idea that she could be loved in return. And there's nothing foolish about wanting that.

Love bombing taught me something important: Real love doesn’t need a stage. It doesn't have to prove itself with price tags or extravagant declarations. It’s consistent. It’s mutual. It doesn’t gaslight you into confusion; it grounds you in truth.

I’m still healing. Still learning to trust my gut. But if someone ever tries to win me over again with a shopping spree or a surprise trip before they've even bothered to know me, I will pause. I’ll remember that love isn't something you perform; it’s something you grow, slowly, together.

And next time, I won’t mistake fireworks for foundation.

Jill Layton started writing professionally over a decade ago when she realized her emails and texts were kind of funny. She’s a writer for Scary Mommy, Bustle, Best Products, and other fun sites. She also writes radio ads and is a ghostwriter for a comedian — don’t tell anyone. She’s the mom of two sarcastic kids and the world’s most perfect dog.