My date told me to meet him at a location in the city he lives. When I got there, it turned out that he had booked full body massages for us.

I should have walked away then but I didn’t and ended up going.

I guess I was trying to be open-minded. We’d been talking for about two weeks, and he seemed nice enough—funny, charming, and oddly obsessed with juice cleanses. He said it was part of his “health journey,” whatever that meant.

I’d expected dinner or maybe a walk in the park, but instead, he handed me a fluffy white robe and said, “Relax, this’ll help us connect on a deeper level.”

I’m not sure what kind of “connection” he was going for, but I laughed it off, took the robe, and followed him inside. The spa was upscale—soft music, lemon-scented air, smiling staff. It could’ve been a great experience if the context wasn’t so weird.

We went into separate rooms, which was a huge relief. I didn’t want to be rubbing elbows—or anything else—on a first date. My massage therapist was this older woman named Grace who chatted kindly while kneading my very confused shoulders.

“First time?” she asked. I nodded. “On a date?” I nodded again.

She chuckled and said, “Honey, I’ve seen worse. One guy brought his Tinder date to a colonics clinic. At least you’re getting oils and music.”

She had a point.

After the massage, we met in the lounge where they served ginger tea and dried mangoes, which he devoured like he hadn’t eaten in days. I expected us to go for food next, but nope.

“Wanna come back to my place and do some breathwork together?” he asked with a grin that should’ve been illegal.

I blinked. “Breathwork?”

“Yeah, it’s like—you lie down and breathe really deep, and it can bring up emotional blocks. Sometimes people cry or laugh or even… scream.”

I stared. “You want me to come over to your house to scream?”

He shrugged. “Only if you feel called to it.”

If I had any common sense left, I would’ve thanked him for the massage and headed home. But something in me—maybe the hope that not every guy out there is completely unhinged—wanted to give him one last chance.

So I said, “Okay, but maybe we grab something to eat first?”

He agreed, and we walked to a nearby vegan café that he swore had “life-altering” lentil stew. I just wanted fries, but they didn’t have those—only air-fried cassava chips and beetroot sliders.

While we waited, I asked more about him. He told me he used to work in finance but had burned out. He’d moved out of the city, started meditating, sold his car, and now led cacao ceremonies in his apartment on Thursdays.

I nodded slowly, chewing on my cassava chip like it was a piece of cardboard. “And do you… get paid for that?”

“Oh no,” he said. “Money is a construct. I work on a donation basis. Energy exchange, you know?”

I did not know.

After dinner, we walked to his place. I had mentally decided I’d stay for 15 minutes tops, just long enough to not seem rude. But the moment I stepped inside, I knew I had miscalculated.

There were crystals on every surface, a full drum set in the corner, and an entire wall covered in post-it notes that said things like “I AM THE MOON” and “HEALER OF MOTHERS.”

A fluffy cat named Cloud licked its own butt on the couch while Enya played softly in the background.

“Take your shoes off,” he said. “The floor is grounded with Himalayan salt.”

I tried not to laugh and slid my sneakers off. The floor felt like… a floor.

We sat on yoga mats, and he lit some incense that smelled like wet tree bark. Then he pulled out a bowl of raw cacao and offered me a sip.

“It’s ceremonial,” he said. “Sacred.”

It tasted like bitter mud.

Then he dimmed the lights and said, “Let’s breathe.”

I humored him for about five minutes, deep inhales, deep exhales, until he suddenly burst into tears.

Like, full-on sobbing.

I opened one eye and saw him curled into a ball, mumbling something about his ex and a goat sanctuary they were supposed to build in Oregon.

“Are you… okay?” I asked.

“She left me,” he sniffled. “Said I was too emotionally available.”

I nodded awkwardly and patted his shoulder.

That was my cue to leave. I mumbled something about needing to walk my imaginary dog and headed out, still barefoot, because I couldn’t find my shoes in the dark.

He texted me five minutes later: You unlocked something in me.

I never replied.

Two days later, I went out with someone else—Caleb. He worked as a mechanic, had zero tattoos of tree roots, and thought “breathwork” was something you did before blowing up a tire. Our first date was pizza and a movie. I told him about the massage guy, and he laughed so hard he spilled soda on his lap.

We started seeing each other regularly. Nothing fancy—grabbing burgers, watching TV, playing mini-golf. He was simple, real, and didn’t cry on the floor surrounded by crystals.

Three months into dating, I got a text from “Massage Guy” again. Hosting a moon circle this weekend. Feel called?

I blocked the number.

A year later, I married Caleb.

At our wedding, my sister gave a toast and said, “I knew he was the one when she stopped dating weirdos who served tea and trauma on the first date.”

Everyone laughed. Even Cloud the cat would’ve agreed if he were there.

But here’s the twist.

Six months after the wedding, I found out I was pregnant. We were overjoyed. But during my second trimester, I started having complications and had to quit my job and stay on bed rest.

It was a rough time—emotionally, financially, everything.

One afternoon, Caleb came home holding a grocery bag and looking stunned. He handed me a folded note.

“It was taped to the front door,” he said.

Inside was a gift card for groceries and baby supplies—$500—and a note that simply read:

You helped me cry. Now I hope this helps you breathe. Blessings. — D.

It took me a second.

D?

Massage Guy.

The same one I thought was a joke. The one I had blocked and rolled my eyes at.

I guess he wasn’t all bad. Maybe just… misplaced.

Caleb stared at me while I cried and laughed at the same time.

We used the money. We were grateful. I never tried to contact him. But I silently wished him all the goat sanctuaries and post-it notes his heart desired.

Our daughter was born healthy three months later. We named her Mira, after the Sanskrit word for “ocean,” because she came after so many waves.

Sometimes life throws you into strange situations just to show you who you are—and what you want. That awkward massage date? It taught me more than I expected.

I learned to trust my gut. I learned that kindness comes in weird packages. And I learned that the best people often arrive after the weirdest detours.

So if your date ever hands you a robe and tells you to breathe, just know—it might not be love, but it could still lead you somewhere beautiful.

If you enjoyed this story, give it a like or share it with someone who’s been on a terrible date—you never know where the laughs (or lessons) might take you.