Serial Griever: Dating with Grief

I recently stumbled upon an article in the Let’s Talk About Loss blog: ‘Three Ways Fleabag Depicted Grief Perfectly.’ As a long-time Fleabag fan, it struck a chord with me and reminded me just how good the show was. Mulling it over further, I propose a fourth way that Fleabag depicted grief perfectly, and it’s through the tumultuous dating life of Fleabag herself.

Whilst I haven’t yet found my Hot Priest, I do have some similar stories to the pseudonymised “Bus Rodent.” My friends still talk about “Bike Boy,” the bike mechanic I once went on a supremely hungover date with. The kind of date you simply cannot miss, despite your alcohol-induced weakness, because it was arranged by your mother in exchange for a free road bike service. Thanks, Mum!

There are several others who I will save from embarrassment, but since my mother’s death I seem to have stalled the collection of my beloved dating stories. I have found myself straying into an introspective haze that does not align with meeting someone. For the first time in a long time — maybe ever — I am a little scared to hand over my heart. The entire promise of dating and the hopeful suggestion of a fresh start just feels misaligned with grief’s refusal to offer a clean slate.

Fleabag perfectly captures the way grief makes you crave connection, but also makes you recoil from it. We see this dichotomy in Fleabag’s dating trajectory: full of self-sabotaging one-night stands, rebounds to Harry, and the defiant chase after Hot Priest. She throws herself at these connections, not necessarily because she believes in them, but because she is desperate to feel something other than grief. Yet, in her most vulnerable moments, hyper-independence becomes a protective armour covered in spikes which stops people getting past that first or second layer and actually seeing her for who she is.

As I prepare to graduate St Andrews (gulp) and enter the real world, dating has been looming in my mind like a deadline. The prospect of an entirely new pool of people to meet is both terrifying and enticing. St Andrews has offered me the comfort of being known and safe in my grief. My friends and all the readers of The Saint know, so it’s a pretty tight circle. The real test lies ahead: stepping into empty spaces where I have to build everything from scratch. 

Dating after grief isn’t just dating — it’s risking another heartbreak in a heart that is already hurting. However, if Fleabag can do it — messily, painfully, and with a lot of wine — then I suppose I can too. Eventually.