Growing up as a rich-skinned Black girl in Toronto, I learned early that dark-skin was often seen as undesirable. "I just don't date dark-skinned girls" became a refrain I heard too often. The light-skin versus dark-skin debates raged through high school hallways. In university, I watched Black men in my social circles mostly date non-Black women or lighter-skinned Black women.

I didn't date through middle school, high school, or university — not by choice, but because no one showed interest. As a dark-skinned girl, I knew the standard was different and we had to be ‘on-point’ in order to be seen or we were ridiculed. Like when we’d be subjected to unsolicited comments about our hair by being called “weave-head” or Black guys going as far as pulling our ponytails to try to remove our extensions, if we had some, while non-Black girls weren’t put through this same disrespect. But even with fresh braids and my best outfit, I remained unseen.

Making male friends came easily. I built close platonic relationships throughout my life. But I was always perceived as just “my good friend, Stella.” These same men would casually explain their preference for lighter-skinned women with curly hair. One guy my exact complexion, admitted he didn't want his kids "coming out looking like him."

I didn't realize how deeply I'd internalized this hatred projected onto dark-skinned Black women until I noticed how it shaped my dating reality.

When Online Dating Confirmed My Worst Fears

Last year, I finally joined Hinge after a close friend — who met her husband on the app — encouraged me for years. I resisted, fearing my in-person invisibility would translate online. But with carefully selected photos and witty prompts, I hoped someone might actually see me. 

Six months later, I'd received barely any likes. Friends told me to keep trying, sharing their own success stories. But their experiences looked nothing like mine. My lighter-skinned and non-Black friends described sorting through countless likes and going on multiple dates to find their partners.

I couldn't even reach that starting point. The only date I'd secured ended with me sitting alone at a table for two, waiting for someone who never showed.

My fears had materialized. Online dating mirrored my offline experience exactly.

Everything Changed In Europe

This summer, I travelled to Lyon for an exchange program. My entire understanding of desirability shifted within days.

On a packed bus home after exploring the city, a man sat next to me. I caught him staring from the corner of my eye but dismissed it — surely he wasn't looking at me. Then he spoke: "C'est quoi tes origines?" (What's your background?) — a pickup line I'd hear repeatedly throughout my time abroad.

We chatted. He'd moved from a French African country for school and stayed. As my stop approached, he asked if he could show me around Lyon sometime.

{https://www.instagram.com/p/DN0aHS0Yneq/}

Walking off that bus, my brain performed complicated mental gymnastics. Did he really just ask me out?

Throughout France, I was complimented for my "rich skin tone." Daily, men from various backgrounds approached me respectfully, called me beautiful, and asked me for a drink. Whether I wore my natural hair in short twists or extensions, dressed up or down, simply existing as myself proved enough.

Still, I hesitated to try Hinge again.

Then a Chinese-Canadian classmate mentioned over lunch that she'd lined up several Hinge dates in just days. My jaw dropped. She'd accomplished in a week what I couldn't achieve in six months. Despite my history, she convinced me to try once more.

This time felt different. Rich-skinned Black women were clearly seen as desirable here.

I redownloaded Hinge. The likes poured in. I matched with men I genuinely found interesting. Whether in Lausanne's nightclubs, walking through Lisbon's streets, or attending a London festival, I was approached in person and found success on the app. Paris brought the most matches across various backgrounds and several actual dates.

For the first time, I experienced normal dating. I could chat with someone, and if we weren't aligned, we'd part ways respectfully. My skin tone and African features no longer stood as barriers to desirability. 

{https://www.instagram.com/p/DPjZuMcEcKA/?img_index=1}

The Return To Reality

Back in Toronto, I kept the app active, expecting my European success to continue. The likes immediately dropped to zero.

I discussed this with male friends. They listened but didn't grasp the magnitude of the issue. "You don't need every guy to like you," they said. "Just one person."

They missed the point entirely.

Then I ran into a friend visiting from Brooklyn. She also has a rich skin tone. When I described my European dating success versus Toronto struggles, she said: "I forgot that we're invisible in Toronto. For better or worse, I can't leave my house for five minutes in Brooklyn without someone complimenting me or trying to holler at me." She also mentioned that in Toronto she wasn’t able to date Black men. “Not because I didn’t want to,” she said. “But because no one was checking for me.” 

It crystallized everything. I wasn't alone in feeling invisible in my own city.

{https://www.instagram.com/p/DOoOUPYkUfn/?igsh=YzRrOTB5bmgyd2p0}

Breaking The Silence

Frustrated, I posted on Instagram: "Dating Diaries: Why was it easier for me as a Black woman with a rich skin tone to date in Europe than in Toronto, my own city?"

Hundreds of comments flooded in from rich-skinned Black women locally and globally sharing identical Toronto dating struggles. Though I only had 2000 followers at the time, the post was shared 150 times and viewed over 23,000 times. 

The responses — in comments and DMs — were devastating. Dark-skinned Black women across generations shared extreme anti-Black comments they'd endured growing up here. They described being rendered invisible, hypersexualized, or directly told men had no interest in dating dark-skinned girls.

Like me, they'd only found dating success outside the country, like in Africa, the Caribbean, and certain cities in Europe and the United States where Blackness is a majority.

Though colourism and anti-Blackness are global, in my personal experience, I’ve found these places to be successful because in the majority Black spaces, Blackness tends to be viewed across a spectrum and beauty amongst Black people is less singularized. 

The Black women who messaged me shared stories of going out with friends in Toronto and only their lighter-skinned and non-Black friends are approached, while they are made to feel invisible. But when they’ve visited the spaces mentioned above, they are seen. One of the rich-skinned Black women stated that it was in the Bahamas where she was finally treated like a woman, another said that it was an African American man who first called her beautiful, and another said that she was only able to date when abroad. 

{https://www.instagram.com/p/DNeB_1MMNG-/?hl=en&img_index=1}

The Politics Of "Preference"

These are not coincidental or singular experiences. Though Toronto brands itself as multicultural, anti-Blackness and colorism remain deeply entrenched. Desiring women closer to white beauty standards continues as the norm.

When I discuss this with male friends — mostly Black men — they claim it's just "preference." But preferences aren't apolitical. In discussing, they’ve gotten defensive to the point of naming the women they’ve dated or have found attractive. Each time, at least 80% of the women named are non-Black, lighter-skinned, or are Black and have features close to whiteness. 

When they refuse to see these patterns as colourism and featurism, some then state, “well, it’s just the attitude thing.” Though I’d rather not repeat dangerous tropes, I’ve heard it enough to address it. While other women are given grace and are often viewed as flawed individuals, in these instances, Black women are stereotyped and deemed disrespectful. 

Of course, one can like who they want to like. However, my point in having this conversation with my guy friends is to share my experience with people I care about and who care about me, and to have a conversation around the construction of desirability. 

So much informs what society deems attractive and who deserves love. When you’ve been told by a man, as I have, that if you were light-skinned, then said man would’ve probably dated you, you know that the issue is beyond compatibility. 

Many rich-skinned Black women aren’t even being seen because of what we’ve convinced ourselves is desirable. Though I am not stating this is all rich-skinned Black women’s experiences, as there are many in relationships dating men of all backgrounds, including Black men, I’m simply pointing to a majority experience. And based on my experiences and conversations with other Black women, the richer your melanin, the harder dating becomes in Toronto.

This extends beyond dating. When I worked as a model scout, I tried recruiting dark-skinned Black women but was told the agent wanted Black women with "ambiguous features." In other words, those closer to whiteness — curly hair, smaller noses, lighter skin.

Reclaiming Agency

Returning to Toronto left me upset and angry at my city that refused to see me. I used to believe I lacked agency, that I had to accept this anti-Blackness and colourism.

But desirability is taught. Desirability changes depending on location. While I shouldn't have to leave my city to find love, I refuse to change myself to be seen.

I am enough as I am. I choose to exist only in spaces and among people who see me for exactly who I am.

Most importantly, I know that my Lord Jesus Christ has the partner for me.