Brooke LeBlanc wasn’t asking for much—unless, of course, you count a man who is between 35 and 42, “healthy masculine,” smart, funny, lighthearted, kind, generous, thoughtful, fit, sober, child-free but decidedly wanting children, emotionally healed, financially unbothered, professionally ambitious, geographically convenient, and compatible with her mother. The San Francisco–based tech executive, who works at the startup Corgi, became an accidental internet celebrity after she took to X with a disarmingly direct question: “Who wants to cofound the rest of my life with me?” It was the kind of post that could have been lost in the noise of the timeline, except that she attached a list of “non-negotiables” so specific, so unapologetic, and so thoroughly itemized that people couldn’t look away. Some read it as a manifesto of impossible standards, others as a satirical jab at modern dating, and plenty more as a fascinating window into what a successful, self-aware woman in San Francisco actually wants. The post spread quickly, sparking the usual blend of mockery, applause, and earnest LinkedIn-style commentary. But just as the conversation was beginning to settle, LeBlanc returned with an update that made everything even more interesting: any prospective suitor would now need to pass a second interview, and this one might be tougher than any first date. “Foot note,” she wrote, “You will now also have to get my mom’s approval as she’s reading replies and sending me ‘which ones are cute.’” In other words, the application process had just added a family reference check, and the hiring manager was now a mother with her own X account, her own opinions, and apparently a hacked Twitter profile in the midst of all the chaos.
The maternal seal of approval arrived in the form of a screenshot that LeBlanc shared with her followers. In the text, her mother was clearly keeping up with the viral response—though perhaps not through the most secure channels—and had already spotted a contender worth nominating. “Babe- idk what the hell you are stirring up today, but this guy is seems smart, funny and cute! even though my twitter acct was hacked, I’m getting some of your feed rolling up about ‘post economic’ banter!! Haha! Love you sweetie!!” The man in question was David Stehle, whose X profile paints a picture of a certain kind of modern man: a network security consultant, founder and CEO, self-described “Rusty Writer,” BFF to a bulldog, and builder working on something labeled “#modern.” He had reportedly engaged with LeBlanc’s “post economic” language, whatever that meant to each of them, and that was enough to catch Mom’s eye. It’s a deeply human moment in the middle of a very public, very online story: a mother scrolling through her daughter’s mentions, seeing a face she likes, and enthusiastically texting her daughter like a friend setting up a blind date. The scene is almost sweet, despite the hacked account and the chaotic circumstances. And it underscores a larger truth about trying to find love in the age of social media: even when you think you’re in control of your own dating life, your family is always ready to chime in. For all her carefully crafted requirements, LeBlanc had made room for something far less rational—a mother’s intuition, a gut feeling, a text that says “this one looks cute.” The checklist was still there, but so was the reminder that love rarely follows a job description.
So what exactly does a man have to do to make the cut? Let’s walk through the list, because it is equal parts revealing and demanding. First, the basics: age 35 to 42, which places LeBlanc in a specific stage of life where partners are expected to have some maturity but not too much wear. He should be “healthy masculine,” a phrase that carries a lot of cultural baggage but seems to mean confident, protective, and grounded without being toxic. He has to be smart, funny, and lighthearted, because apparently the apocalypse is easier to handle with someone who can make you laugh. He must have a “provider/protector mentality,” which is another loaded phrase, though in LeBlanc’s telling it seems less about traditional gender roles and more about wanting someone who approaches partnership with care and responsibility. Then comes the intriguing requirement that he be “post economic (still hardworking).” The phrase is not exactly standard dating vernacular. It seems to describe someone who has moved beyond financial survival mode, someone who has enough stability and security that money isn’t a constant source of anxiety, but who still works hard because they’re driven, not because they’re desperate. It’s an interesting concept in a city like San Francisco, where wealth and ambition are often intertwined, and where the cost of living can make even well-paid tech workers feel like they’re always running in place. On top of all that, she wants someone kind, generous, and thoughtful—qualities that shouldn’t be extraordinary but often are. And then there are the family-planning requirements: no kids yet, but a clear and decisive desire to have them. That’s a reasonable filter for someone who wants children without the complications of blending families, but it also narrows the field considerably, especially in a city full of divorced fathers and men who are still trying to decide what they want out of life.
The checklist only gets more specific from there. LeBlanc’s ideal partner must be on what she calls the “healing path,” meaning he should have engaged with his own emotional growth through therapy, books, retreats, or whatever else helps a person become self-aware. This is the kind of language that sounds very Bay Area—earnest, introspective, and steeped in a culture of self-improvement. She’s not looking for someone who is already perfectly whole, if such a person exists; she’s looking for someone who is actively doing the work, aware of their own patterns, and committed to becoming better. That’s a high bar, and it’s also a deeply personal one. It suggests that LeBlanc has done enough of her own healing to know what she doesn’t want: someone who is emotionally unavailable, stubbornly defensive, or resistant to growth. She also insists on a long-distance rule: potential suitors can meet her anywhere in the world, but she will not date unless they live in the same city. For someone based in San Francisco, that rules out a huge portion of the online dating pool, especially in a world where remote work and dating apps have blurred the lines of geography. She wants a partner who is physically present, not someone who will be a pen pal or a weekend warrior flying in for breakfast dates. He also needs to be fit and sober, because, as her checklist bluntly puts it, “you care about your health.” That’s not just about aesthetics; it’s about lifestyle compatibility and long-term vitality. And then come the “strongly preferred” extras: no previous marriages or engagements, ideally working in tech, comfortable with risk, and someone whose career is woven into their personal life. That last one is particularly revealing because it hints at a person for whom work isn’t merely a paycheck but an identity—someone who brings the same passion and creativity to their startup as they do to a relationship. It’s a tall order, but it’s also a coherent vision of the life she wants to build.
Naturally, the internet had a lot to say about all of this. The reactions split roughly along predictable lines. Some men took offense, reading the list as evidence of unrealistic expectations or, worse, a shallow, transactional approach to romance. Others joked about the very idea of dating in San Francisco, where the tech-heavy culture and high cost of living create a peculiar and often frustrating social landscape. One person wrote, “I can’t imagine anything worse than being single and dating in SF,” while another quipped, “Lol. I thought this was AI slop. Sad to find out it’s real.” The comment about AI slop captures something about the age we live in—these hyper-specific dating criteria, presented with such clinical precision, sound almost like they were generated by an algorithm designed to filter human beings into categories. And yet LeBlanc is real, and so is her list, and so are the many single people who secretly have similar criteria but would never write them down so publicly. Women, by and large, responded more sympathetically. They recognized something familiar in the list, not because they all share the same requirements, but because they understood the impulse to be clear about what you want after years of vague situationships and disappointing encounters. One woman, Julia Gurner, captured the sentiment in a post that went viral in its own right: “If a decent-looking, ambitious guy said he had a certain checklist for dating, people wouldn’t blink. I’d think about that. I hope everyone has standards for who they date.” That simple observation reframed the entire conversation. For all the jokes about LeBlanc being too picky, the double standard was hard to ignore. Men have been making lists forever—often internal, sometimes spoken aloud—about the kind of woman they want: attractive, intelligent, supportive, low-maintenance, athletic, good with family, and so on. When a man articulates those preferences, he’s often celebrated as having high standards. When a woman does the same, she’s scrutinized, mocked, and accused of being unrealistic. LeBlanc’s willingness to put her list out there, even with a wink and a sense of humor, felt less like arrogance and more like honesty.
For all the jokes, though, there’s something genuinely human underneath the viral spectacle. Brooke LeBlanc isn’t the first person to ask the universe for a partner who aligns with her values, her lifestyle, and her dreams, and she won’t be the last. She just had the audacity to say it out loud—publicly, on the internet, where strangers could pick apart every word. Her list might be impossible for one person to satisfy, but it’s not crazy. It’s a reflection of what she has learned about herself, what she wants out of life, and what she refuses to settle for. The “post economic” requirement suggests she doesn’t want to be someone’s financial rescue project. The “healing path” requirement suggests she doesn’t want to be someone’s therapist. The “no previous marriages” preference suggests she wants to build a future without the weight of past vows. The “same city” rule suggests she wants presence, not just proximity. And the fact that she’s now factoring in her mother’s approval suggests that, for all her carefully considered criteria, she still values the voice of the person who knows her best—the one who has seen her grow, stumble, and reinvent herself. That’s not weakness; that’s intimacy. It’s also a reminder that no checklist, no matter how detailed, can capture the mystery of attraction. The man she ends up with might be exactly what she described, or he might be someone completely unexpected, someone who makes her realize that her non-negotiables were just placeholders for the deeper feeling she didn’t know how to name. In the meantime, she has succeeded in doing something remarkable: she has made a list that sparked a global conversation about dating standards, gender expectations, and the search for partnership in a digital world. She’s given us all a little more permission to be honest about what we want, even if no single human being could ever check every box. And in a strange way, that’s a kind of love letter to the possibility of connection—written in the most San Francisco way imaginable, one bullet point at a time.
