Opinion: Situationships Are The Exception To Gen Z’s Emotional Awareness

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Yesterday was Valentine’s Day, the one day of the year that calls for clarity and effort. Roses. Chocolate. Public declarations. Yet, for much of Generation Z, relationships remain carefully undefined, sidestepping both the label and expectations they carry.

A “situationship” is an intimate relationship between two people who consider themselves more than friends but haven’t defined it with a label, according to Merriam-Webster. The definition is straightforward. The appeal is less so.

The word offers a middle ground. It gives people somewhere to stand that isn’t quite commitment but also isn’t nothing. It allows intimacy without declaration. By withholding a label, the relationship remains ambiguous, allowing emotional commitment to be deferred without fully denying its presence.

In other words, it lets us hover.

Gen Z has steadily turned that gray area into normative dating terrain. The situationship is a kind of romantic purgatory — a space where almost nothing is said and the lack of definition becomes the definition. You’re not strangers. You’re not dating. You’re somewhere in between.

Modern dating advice repeats the same script: Don’t double-text. Don’t show too much interest. Don’t ask “What are we?” too soon. The person who seems to care less holds the advantage. Wanting something openly can feel embarrassing. Being earnest reads as being corny, and being corny feels exposed. Instead, we keep things vague. Cool. Casual. We act like we could walk away at any moment, even when we don’t want to, because it offers emotional insurance.

But this reluctance to express vulnerability isn’t because Gen Z doesn’t want connection.

Data from Match Group show that around 80% of Gen Z are confident they will find lasting love someday — more than any previous generation — but only about 55% feel ready for a romantic relationship right now.

Researchers call this the readiness paradox: Young adults are optimistic about love, but set high internal standards before they feel prepared to pursue it. They want to set healthy boundaries, feel emotionally fulfilled on their own and be comfortable in solitude before entering something that requires vulnerability.

While this emphasis on personal growth can be admirable, it also intersects with the very linguistic avoidance that the “situationship” captures. When readiness is tied to self-optimization, the threshold for taking interpersonal risk rises. A willingness to name something, to make it public, to “hard launch” it, becomes a test of perfection rather than a step toward connection.

Social media intensifies this pressure. Many Gen Z daters attach meaning to online signals: Nearly half will “soft launch” a connection, and a majority view a “hard launch” as a binding commitment. The fear of public failure through posts that can be easily judged makes clarity feel risky and ambiguity feel safer.

This map between public performance and personal feeling underscores how public relationships have become. The language of detachment is a tool to manage impressions as much as emotions.

In many ways, Gen Z is redefining how romance fits into a broader set of social priorities. They talk about ambition, independence and emotional boundaries with the same fervor earlier generations once reserved for settling down. But these priorities complicate the timeless territory of intimacy.

This readiness checklist can feel like a prerequisite for emotional investment, yet the very traits young adults want to perfect — communication, vulnerability, resilience — are often developed through relationships, not before them.

The words we use, then, aren’t neutral descriptors. They shape the world they describe. “I got the ick” says “I reject” before caring becomes complicated. “I’m being nonchalant” says “I care” without admitting it. “I don’t want anything serious” says “I don’t want to be vulnerable.”

Language can liberate. It allows new forms of connection outside outdated scripts. But, it can also normalize emotional distance, making direct communication feel optional. Gen Z may have abandoned what sociologists call the “relationship escalator,” but the emotional purgatory they’ve created isn’t exactly freedom. It’s a space where connection exists without confirmation, where closeness often fades before it can be defined and the safest move is to never fully show your hand.

Gen Z has made self-awareness part of its identity. We speak fluently about boundaries. We unpack attachment styles. We insist on emotional intelligence in friendships, classrooms and workplaces. It’s worth asking why romantic relationships are the exception.

Gain Lim is a freshman majoring in Health & Exercise Science. She can be reached at glim06@syr.edu

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