Almost a year ago to the day, I published a story about the singular success of Love Island USA, season six. You remember it—Leah, Serena, Kordell and the gang—led for the very first time by Vanderpump Rule’s Ariana Madix. The US syndication, which had until then been overlooked for the OG, British version of the show (and even the Australian seasons), had officially arrived, and the world tuned in by the billions.

This summer, a whole new group of singles descended on Fiji for their own chance of love. Our hopes were high. But week after week, as we watched producers grow increasingly desperate for the next generation of islanders to develop any semblance of a real, normal connection, that hope dissipated. As the fireworks flew in the finale, there was just one couple who had “closed off” (and barely). The rest were situationships, and, for the first time in Love Island’s history, one of the pairings broke up. 

As a longtime Love Island fan, this season was a frustrating watch—and the internet agreed. Commentators were quick to assign blame: first, the casting, arguing that influencer-heavy lineup meant media training and game-playing. Then, the producers, who scrapped show staples like bombshell dates and the iconic movie night in favor of chaos-inciting challenges. While these are all fair points, to me, this season’s shortcomings aren’t exactly anyone’s fault. They’re just a reflection of the modern dating landscape. It’s not that there was a lack of connection—it’s that there was a lack of commitment.

Let’s look at the evidence. Ace and Chelley—who apparently knew each for at least a year before the show—paired up instantly, then unsuccessfully saw other people throughout most of the show, only becoming exclusive when it became clear they were disliked by the public. Then Iris, who was the other half one of the most promising couples with TJ, and then, when separated, immediately moved on to Pepe. Finally, Nic, “closed off” with Cierra, only to later confirm they would not be boyfriend-girlfriend on the outside. Then after she was removed from the villa, started dating her closest friend within the day. 

Driving this point home another dynamic we saw play out over and over: voting cast members off because they “weren’t exploring enough.” Essentially, if an islander found a solid connection too soon and stopped flirting outside their couple, they were, according to their peers, now at risk. You could call it strategy (early couples often coast to the finale), but I think it revealed something deeper, more honest. This is how they believe they’re supposed to date—and do date. Not just in the villa, but in real life, too.

The mentality makes sense, if you think about it. When Tinder launched, Nic and Huda were only 11, which means while most millennials grew up forging connections in school gyms and frat houses, Gen Z grew up in a dating landscape where the options were endless. And it’s no secret that the abundance of online dating has created a strange scarcity mindset: there are hundreds of maybes, but very few “hell yes’s”. Basically, we’re living in a real-life Love Island—settling for whoever is in front of us, while holding out for a last-minute bombshell.

Of course, the next-best-thing phenomenon has consequences. By 2030, it’s predicted that 45% of women will be single and childless — a statistic likely fueling the recent push by the Trump administration for more women to get pregnant, which means the government now has a vested interest in your love life. Bumble founder Whitney Wolfe Herd has considered introducing online avatars on the platform, so users can gauge chemistry in an initial Al interaction prior to you ever having to do any real social labor with a stranger. 

While all of this is certainly unprecedented, it isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Our parents made choices and stuck with them—for better or worse. That kind of commitment has been heavily romanticized by both their generation and the media (likely to help prop up the patriarchy). And sure, there are still plenty of practical perks to settling down—tax breaks, shared health insurance, easier mortgage approvals. 

But pressure to conform often led to rushed decisions. My parents, for example, got married after just a year of dating—something that might seem impulsive by today’s standards. It worked out for them, but they’re the exception. For many others in their generation, choosing the wrong person at the “right” time meant falling into rigid gender roles, sacrificing autonomy, or ending up emotionally disconnected—or worse. Those choices often led to years of quiet dissatisfaction or eventual divorce, which now affects nearly half of all marriages. So can you really blame young people for taking their time?

Our islanders proved that just because it could benefit you to find your person—literally, $100,000 was on the line—doesn’t mean you should. Finding “the one” (if that person even exists for everyone) is undeniably beautiful. But maybe it’s time we normalize it taking a little longer to get there. Besides, there’s no shame in enjoying the search.