My GF Said, “My Friends Think You Limit Me. So We’re Done” I Replied, “Cool. Then Go Join Them” The

A Night Under the Microscope

The friend group is tight-knit and insufferable. There’s Vanessa the host, Lauren the editor, Jessica who works in HR somewhere, and a rotating cast of other women who all live in the Mission or SoMa. They’re constantly analyzing everything through this lens of red flags, toxic energy, and emotional labor.

Look, I’m all for healthy boundaries, but when every conversation starts sounding like a self-help seminar mixed with an intervention, it gets exhausting. I first met the whole crew at a live podcast recording about six months ago. Ashley wanted me there for support, which apparently meant sitting in the audience of this trendy co-working space in SoMa while they recorded an episode about dating in your 30s.

The venue was packed, maybe 80 people, mostly women in their 20s and 30s all dressed like they’d coordinated their outfits from the same Pinterest board. The episode itself was fine, I guess. Vanessa was charismatic, knew how to work a crowd, and had this theatrical way of delivering opinions that made everything sound revolutionary.

She’d pause for effect, let the audience react, and play to the energy in the room. The actual content was pretty standard relationship advice wrapped in empowerment language, but the delivery made it seem profound. After the show, Vanessa came up to chat with this smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

She had this way of looking at people, scanning them up and down like she was cataloging data for later use. Made me feel like a specimen under glass.

“So you’re the famous Dylan,” she said, extending a hand. “Ashley talks about you constantly.”

We shook hands. Her grip was firm and deliberate, the kind of handshake that’s trying to communicate dominance.

“Nice to meet you. Great show,” I said. Because what else do you say?

“So what do you do?” she asked, still with that analytical gaze.

“Cybersecurity incident response, mostly. I help companies deal with security breaches, data leaks, that kind of thing.”

She literally made a face, this little nose wrinkle, like she’d smelled something off.

“So you’re like corporate surveillance but in a hoodie?”

The whole group laughed: Lauren, Jessica, and the rotating cast of hangers-on. All of them found this hilarious. I tried to laugh it off, but it stung in that specific way where you know someone just labeled you and filed you away in their mental catalog of types.

I was now “corporate surveillance guy,” and no amount of explaining the actual nuances of cybersecurity work was going to change that first impression.

“It’s more about protection than surveillance,” I said, trying to keep it light. “Helping organizations secure their systems, prevent breaches, and respond when things go wrong.”

“Sure,” Vanessa said with this knowing smile. “That’s what they all say.”

Ashley jumped in then, trying to smooth things over.

“Dylan’s actually really good at what he does. He just helped his company prevent a ransomware attack last month.”

“How noble,” Vanessa said, and somehow made it sound like an insult.

That night they all went to this afterparty at a bar in the Mission. The place was loud and crowded, exactly the kind of scene I usually avoid. But Ashley wanted me there, so I went.

The entire time they were doing this thing where they’d tell stories about terrible men they’d dated or heard about, dissecting every behavior like they were solving a murder. Someone would start, “So I was dating this guy who would always suggest restaurants instead of asking where I wanted to go.” And the group would immediately jump in.

“Oh my god, that’s a control thing. He was making decisions for you, right?”

“And when I’d suggest something different, he’d be like, ‘Are you sure? That place has bad reviews.’”

“Classic manipulation, making you second-guess yourself!”

Every story followed the same pattern. Man does something neutral or even considerate; group reframes it as manipulation or control. Planning dates in advance? He’s micromanaging your time. Offering to pay for dinner? He’s trying to create a debt dynamic. Asking about your day? He’s monitoring your activities.

I tried to contribute to conversations and offer some perspective. Maybe the guy suggesting restaurants was just trying to be helpful. Maybe offering to pay was just being generous, not manipulative. Maybe sometimes people are just awkward or inexperienced, not malicious.

Every time I spoke, I’d get these looks like I was the subject being studied, not part of the group. Vanessa would tilt her head and narrow her eyes slightly, and you could practically see her filing away my comments for later analysis. It was weird and uncomfortable, like being the only sober person at a party where everyone else is on something you can’t see.

Jessica, who works in HR, was particularly intense. She’d listen to me with this expression of concern, like I was a troubled employee she needed to counsel.

“That’s an interesting perspective, Dylan,” she’d say, which translated to, “You’re wrong, but I’m being polite about it.”

Lauren, the editor, would just stare at her phone while I talked, only looking up to nod along when someone criticized what I’d said. By the end of the night, I felt exhausted. Not from the noise or the crowd, but from constantly being evaluated.

Every word I said was being weighed, measured, and found wanting. On the drive home, Ashley dropped this bomb.

“The girls think you’re emotionally unavailable. They said, ‘You don’t share enough.’”

I was genuinely confused because I’d literally spent an hour that night talking about my childhood, my relationship with my parents, and work stress. But apparently, because I wasn’t crying or being vulnerable in the exact performative way they expected, I was closed off. That became the pattern.

Any small disagreement Ashley and I had—and I mean small, like should we get Indian or Thai food—would somehow make it onto the podcast. Ashley would bring it up to the group. They’d dissect it like they were on a true crime podcast.

And then I’d hear about it third-hand through passive-aggressive comments. Vanessa started calling me “Dave” on the show, using me as this recurring example of men who micromanage your calendar because I’d suggested we plan a trip in advance instead of booking everything last minute. Never mind that I work in incident response where planning ahead literally prevents disasters.

But sure, wanting to know our vacation dates more than 48 hours in advance makes me controlling. It didn’t feel like a relationship anymore. It felt like a case study I hadn’t consented to participate in.

Here’s where it gets worse. I’m not a big party person, and I don’t love crowded bars where you can’t hear yourself think. And I’m not into these performative hangouts where everyone’s half-engaged and half-scrolling Instagram looking for the next thing.

I suggested to Ashley a few times that maybe we could do smaller things: dinner parties, game nights, or hiking with one or two couples. She’d agree in the moment, but then the friend group would find out, and suddenly I’d become the controlling boyfriend who’s isolating her. Every time I didn’t go to one of their events, it would come up on the podcast.

“If your partner skips girls’ nights, that’s a red flag.”

They never said my name directly, but Ashley would come home and be weird with me afterward, like she was apologizing to them on my behalf for my existence. I tried to play along, I really did. I brought board games to one of their hangouts, thinking maybe we could actually interact instead of everyone performing for their Instagram stories.