You're not really choosing, you're more guessing.
A generation shaped by screens and a pandemic that stole their formative social years now turns to artificial intelligence to help them do what humans once learned simply by being in rooms together. Hinge's CEO frames AI conversation tools as confidence scaffolding for young adults who missed the rehearsals — the flirting, the awkwardness, the practice of showing up. Whether technology can restore what technology helped erode is the quiet question beneath the product announcement, and it sits at the heart of how Gen Z is learning, haltingly, to reach toward one another.
- Gen Z enters adulthood having spent over 1,000 fewer hours per year in person than previous generations, arriving at romance without the informal rehearsals that once made it feel possible.
- Dating apps promised an infinite pool of connection but delivered instead a kind of guessing game — stripped of social cues, users struggle to know who anyone actually is.
- Hinge is deploying AI to review profiles and generate conversation starters, betting that a nudge from an algorithm can substitute for the confidence that lived experience was supposed to build.
- Tinder's user base has shrunk while Hinge grows, yet experts and matchmakers alike are watching a deeper fatigue set in — endless swiping without the intimacy it was meant to unlock.
- Young people are quietly drifting toward gyms, hobbies, and offline life on Friday nights, suggesting the app era may be peaking even as the platforms report their strongest numbers.
Jackie Jantos, who leads Hinge, offers a pointed diagnosis of why young adults hesitate on dating apps: they haven't had enough practice in real life. Gen Z, she argues, wants connection as deeply as any generation before them — what they lack is confidence, and she traces that deficit to a simple, staggering fact. Young adults today spend roughly 1,000 fewer hours per year in person than their counterparts did two decades ago. The pandemic sharpened this, interrupting the years when people typically learn to flirt, to show up, to be awkward together. For many in Gen Z, those experiments never happened.
Hinge has responded by embedding AI into its platform — tools that review profiles and generate conversation starters. Jantos is careful to frame this as assistance rather than replacement: the AI helps users express who they already are, she says, rather than speaking for them. But researchers are less certain the distinction holds. Dr. Carolina Bandinelli at the University of Warwick argues that dating apps were sold as a solution to loneliness and rejection, yet the promise hasn't materialized. Without the social cues of physical presence, she notes, users aren't really choosing — they're guessing.
The market reflects this ambivalence. Tinder has shed users, falling from 1.9 million to 1.5 million in a year, while Hinge grew modestly to the same level, with Gen Z now comprising more than half its active base. Yet even amid that growth, matchmaker Siobhan Copland sees burnout up close — clients exhausted by options, hungry for quality, and increasingly likely to be at the gym on a Friday night rather than swiping.
Hinge markets itself as an app "designed to be deleted," and Jantos insists that aspiration is sincere. But the deeper tension lingers: a generation formed by screens and isolation is now attempting to learn intimacy through the very technology that may have made intimacy harder to find.
Jackie Jantos, who runs Hinge, has a diagnosis for why young adults today struggle to make the first move on dating apps: they simply haven't had enough practice doing it in real life. Gen Z, she argues, wants love as much as anyone else. What they lack is the confidence to put themselves out there—a deficit she traces directly to how little time they spend in actual rooms with other people.
The numbers are striking. Young adults today spend roughly 1,000 fewer hours per year in person than their counterparts did twenty years ago. That's more than two hours every single day spent not in someone's company but absorbed in a phone. The pandemic accelerated this drift, interrupting the years when people typically learn how to show up around others, how to flirt, how to think about intimacy. For many in Gen Z, those formative experiments never happened.
Hinge, founded in 2012 and owned by Match Group, has responded by building AI tools into its platform. One feature lets users ask the algorithm to review their profile and suggest improvements. Another generates conversation starters—prompts designed to help matches begin talking. Jantos is careful about how she frames this. The AI isn't writing your words for you, she insists. It's helping you express who you are. It's a confidence tool, not a replacement for authentic connection.
Whether that distinction holds up is another question. Dr. Carolina Bandinelli, who researches dating and relationships at the University of Warwick, sees the broader picture differently. Dating apps were sold to people as a solution—access to an infinite pool of potential partners, freedom from rejection. But that promise hasn't materialized. "You're not really choosing, you're more guessing," Bandinelli says. Without the social cues that come from being in the same room, it's genuinely difficult to know who someone is.
The market itself is shifting. Tinder, once dominant, has lost ground. Its user base fell from 1.9 million to 1.5 million over the past year. Hinge, by contrast, grew from 1.4 million to 1.5 million in the same period. Gen Z now makes up more than half of Hinge's monthly active users. Yet even as the platform grows, experts warn of dating app burnout—a fatigue that comes from endless swiping and the sense that apps aren't delivering what they promised.
Siobhan Copland, who runs a matchmaking service for young professionals, sees this exhaustion firsthand. Her clients are tired of being bombarded with options. They want quality over quantity. And they're looking elsewhere. Gen Z, she notes, isn't drawn to the bar scene the way previous generations were. They're more likely to be at the gym on a Friday night. The shift suggests something deeper: a move away from apps as the primary way to meet people, even as the apps themselves report growth.
Jantos defends Hinge's brand promise—"designed to be deleted"—as genuine rather than marketing spin. The goal, she says, is to help people find lasting relationships and leave the platform, not to keep them scrolling indefinitely. Whether AI tools serve that goal or undermine it remains contested. What's clear is that a generation shaped by screens and isolation is now trying to navigate intimacy through the very technology that may have contributed to their loneliness in the first place.
Citações Notáveis
Those years when you're experimenting with how you show up in person with another person, how you flirt, how you think about intimacy—that was interrupted for many people.— Jackie Jantos, CEO of Hinge
Dating apps didn't work as they promised they would. The lack of social cues makes it very difficult.— Dr. Carolina Bandinelli, University of Warwick
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
If Gen Z wants love so badly, why do they need AI to help them say hello?
Because they've spent their formative years learning how to be alone together—in the same room but on different phones. They didn't get the practice older generations had, just naturally flirting at parties or bars. The pandemic made it worse.
But doesn't using AI to start conversations feel like cheating? Like you're not really putting yourself out there?
That's the tension Jantos is trying to navigate. She'd say the AI isn't writing your message—it's helping you find your voice when you're too anxious to speak. But you're right to be skeptical. There's a difference between confidence and outsourcing.
The data shows Hinge is growing while Tinder shrinks. Does that mean the AI approach is working?
It might just mean people are tired of Tinder. Hinge's growth doesn't prove the AI is solving the confidence problem—it might just mean users prefer a different interface. The real test is whether people are actually leaving the app to build relationships, not just staying longer.
What about the gym-on-Friday-night thing? Is Gen Z actually moving away from apps?
Maybe. Or maybe they're doing both—going to the gym and swiping. The point is they're not relying on apps the way earlier generations thought they would. They're looking for other ways to meet people, which suggests apps alone aren't cutting it.
So is AI in dating apps a solution or a symptom?
A symptom dressed up as a solution. It's a response to a real problem—loneliness and lost social skills—but it treats the problem at the wrong level. You can't code your way out of isolation.