As I perused the lineup of eligible bachelors on my computer, many looking like they were the latest parolee from the local prison, I sighed. “Getting back out there,” as my kids liked to call it, was nothing short of a significant struggle, and at times a little frightening.

Two years after my husband and I separated in 2001, my daughters decided it was time for me to start dating. Still feeling rejected and unsure of myself, I preferred to stay under my covers, with the blankets over my head, for at least twenty more years. But being a mom who’d do just about anything for her children, I sat at the computer and prepared for a new social experience.

At first, I treated every like and wink—Internet lingo on dating sites that indicated interest in someone’s profile—with respect. And for those who tried to write a note, I decided they deserved a response, even if they seemed a little creepy. It wasn’t long before I felt like I’d taken on a new full-time job answering all the hits on my profile.

Then there were the dates I went on, many of which were a complete disaster. I met men who lied about their height, weight, age, and even marital status (some still married and living with their wives). I was groped (several times) on the first outing, and one even tried to embezzle money after a few conversations in the chat room. There were also those dependent on alcohol and drugs for a good time. In contrast, others still lamented over divorces from thirty years ago, anger seething from every word. Steamer trunks don’t begin to describe the baggage many carried.

But despite all the mishaps, I met a few friendly individuals—yet even those only lasted a couple of months because the fit wasn’t quite right. Before long, I sang the words to Whitney Houston’s song “How Will I Know?” It was all too confusing.

When I was a child, my parents instructed me to always follow my gut, my intuition, when unsure. It’s been a practice that has served me well, most of the time. But let’s face it: Any gut can get gas. Sometimes, other forces weigh heavily on our minds and hearts, and we either negate the voice within or put blinders on because whatever we’re hearing is not what we want to believe. Reality can sometimes be even more exhausting than dating.

Several years ago, I was in a relationship with a kind and generous man. We weren’t a perfect match—far from it—but I was tired of being alone, so I let him in. Soon, we were spending more and more time together—so much time that I thought it would be nice to make space for him in my huge walk-in closet. Once built to house three adults’ belongings, I had pared it down to a minimalistic few dresses, slacks, and shirts.

Standing in what felt like a vacant room, I surveyed the space, wondering where his few things could go. It wasn’t long before I began to shake, and the words “There’s no room in here!” flew out of my mouth. Staring at this vacant hole with enough space for an army, it hit me. If I couldn’t give him even a hanger, my intuition was that he wasn’t the right guy.

So, while my gut may still get gassy at times because my ego is on overload, or fear has crept into the recesses of my brain, I’ll continue to try. And, when unsure, I’ll open up my closet as a litmus test. I’ve since moved from that large home into an itty-bitty apartment built for one. Space is limited. But should Mr. Right one day show up, I’ll know he’s the one because I won’t just give him some space, but the whole damn closet.