Outgrowing “The Boy Is Mine” Syndrome

In high school, Brandy and Monica’s The Boy Is Mine blared through our hallways like gospel. The beat was smooth, the vocals electric, and the message crystal clear: if two women liked the same man, only one could win. I sang along at the top of my lungs, fully subscribed to the idea that love was a competition—and another woman was always the enemy.

It made for a great karaoke duet. But in real life, it’s aged… pretty poorly.

My real-world experience with female rivalry—especially the kind fueled by romantic insecurity—has stripped the fun out of that song. As a teen and into my twenties, I played the part: marked my territory, asserted my rank, tried to “win.” I believed the story we were all fed—that if a man chose you, it meant something. But I also know what it’s like to be on the receiving end: targeted by another woman’s jealousy, blamed for things that weren’t mine to carry. And eventually, I started to ask the obvious question: What, exactly, were we all fighting for?

Because more often than not, the men didn’t even notice the battle. They weren’t picking sides—they weren’t picking at all. We were waging war on each other while they sat quietly on the sidelines, oblivious or indifferent.

Case in point: Ben and I met through Hinge in the fall of 2016. Our first date was at a cozy Brooklyn coffee shop, and the connection was instant. Same age (34), similar values, both creatives who’d been in New York for over a decade. We gave dating a shot, but something never quite landed. There was no romantic spark, just an undeniable ease. After a couple of months, we called it: we’d be better off as friends.

And we were. For the next five years, Ben became part of my inner circle. We talked about everything—our families, our careers, the chaos of dating. I met several of his girlfriends over the years, some briefly, others over dinner at my place. I even set him up with a few of my friends, though nothing stuck.

Later, I moved in with a boyfriend who lived close to Ben’s place, and the three of us would hang out at parties, laugh over drinks, share stories. When that relationship ended, Ben was one of the first people I called. He showed up with a hug and helped me pack when I decided to leave New York and start fresh in Colorado.

We kept in touch. Occasional phone calls, texts here and there. He felt like home.

So when he started dating someone new—a young woman named Ashley—I was happy for him. We talked on speakerphone while they were driving, and I joked about a recent date I’d been on. I invited them to visit Colorado. I was warm. Friendly. Myself.

The next day, Ben called me.

“We can’t talk the way we used to,” he said. “You and I have had this Sex and the City thing going for years, but things are different now.”

Ben had never watched an episode of Sex and the City in his life. I knew exactly who those words belonged to. And instead of fighting it, I let them land. I didn’t push back. I didn’t try to prove that my intentions were pure or that our friendship was innocent. I didn’t reach out again.

That was our last real conversation. Months later, I found out he was engaged—on Instagram. I sent a text congratulating him. He replied with a single “Thanks!” and that was the end of it.

I’ve outgrown the urge to prove myself in these situations. I no longer want to compete for someone’s attention or affection. If a man can’t respect the value of my friendship because it threatens his partner’s sense of security, I understand—but I’m not chasing anyone to validate my place.

That wasn’t always the case.

Years ago, I dated a man named Marc who had a long-distance female friend named Becca. She lived out of state, but they texted constantly, had a whole language of inside jokes, and held weekly FaceTime “guitar lessons” that always left me simmering in quiet rage. Marc swore it was nothing. Platonic. But I didn’t believe him.

I spiraled. Stalked her Instagram. Obsessed over Facebook photos. Scoured captions and comments for hidden meaning. Becca became a fixation. My anxiety—disguised as intuition—told me there was something to fear. I talked about her so much, my friends hated her on principle. I convinced myself that if I could just erase her, I’d erase the problem.

When she finally came to town, I was on edge. Watching her with Marc was torture. She brought up their past, tossed out inside jokes, and seemed determined to center herself. And to be fair—there was something there, a familiarity that made me feel like an outsider. But the truth is, even if they’d kissed, even if there had been a history—that wasn’t what truly unsettled me.

The issue was me. My insecurity. My inability to sit with discomfort. My deep belief that love was something that could be taken from me if I wasn’t careful.

After Marc and I broke up, he and Becca never got together. There was no grand reveal, no hidden romance waiting to surface. And yet, the suspicion had already done its damage. It took years of therapy—and even more unflinching honesty with myself—to understand that their dynamic, whatever it was, had never really been the point.

The real threat wasn’t her. It was who I became around her. The version of myself that constantly questioned my worth. Who read between every line, dissected every glance, and treated each interaction like a clue in a mystery I was desperate to solve. I wasn’t seeking truth—I was grasping for certainty. For control. I wanted to manage the outcome, to earn security, to win a game I didn’t need to be playing in the first place.

But the most damaging form of The Boy Is Mine syndrome isn’t the kind that plays out in relationships—it’s the kind that turns women into rivals and poisons friendships that once felt safe.

In my late thirties, it happened with Callie, one of my closest friends. We met years earlier at a magazine—bonding over bad coffee and worse pay, trading dating stories and snack drawers. Somewhere between after-hours drinks and editorial photoshoots, we became each other’s person. We traveled together, shared secrets, had sleepovers, knew each other’s family histories and therapy breakthroughs. She was the friend I called first—and I was that for her too—whether something wonderful had happened or everything had fallen apart. And because Callie had legitimate trust issues from past relationships, I always tried to be mindful of that—especially when she started dating someone new. A good guy. Sunny.

I had a best friend, “Callie”, who destroyed our friendship over jealousy with a man.

One night at a bar, we were playing trivia with a group of friends. I happened to be sitting next to Sunny, just making casual conversation—laughing about answers, passing nachos. Out of nowhere, Callie stormed over, eyes sharp with accusation, when she confronted him in front of everyone.

I was stunned. So was our mutual friend Laura, who was sitting beside me and had witnessed the whole thing. It felt surreal—like I’d been dropped into a scene I hadn’t auditioned for. A few minutes later, we saw Callie in the corner, visibly upset, loudly arguing with Sunny. We all left shortly after. The next morning, she texted an apology. Said she was tired, overwhelmed, that it was all a misunderstanding. I wanted to believe her. I tried to. But something had shifted.

In the days that followed, Callie moved into damage control, softening the edges of what had happened that night, trying to rewrite the moment before it calcified into memory. But then, weeks later, the worst of it came. Our mutual friend pulled me aside to say Callie had warned her husband to “watch out” for me. That I had a habit of flirting with other women’s partners. That her outburst had been justified.

My stomach dropped. It wasn’t just a moment of jealousy—it was a quiet campaign to discredit me. Her insecurity had become a weapon, and I was the collateral damage.

When I finally confronted her, she brushed it off as a “misunderstanding.” That was when I realized we would never be friends again: Five years of confidence ended in that moment.

Luckily, I was able to hold onto the rest of the group—friends who had been there that night, who saw everything unfold, who knew the truth. But losing Callie was still sad. Not because I wanted her back in my life, but because I had trusted her. And because I never expected someone so close to turn on me in such an irrational, disorienting way.

Still, I knew where it was coming from. I understood the fear that had taken hold of her. I’d seen enough women bend themselves into knots trying to keep a man—to preserve the illusion of control, to defend a relationship even from imaginary threats. Somewhere along the way, it had become more worth it to Callie to keep her hold on Sunny than to protect our friendship. And I’d seen and experienced enough of that dynamic to know: when someone’s fighting a battle they’ve imagined in their own mind, you can’t win.

What I’ve learned from all of this is simple, but hard-won. The impulse to assert dominance, to stake a claim, to win someone over, almost never stems from love. It comes from fear. From scarcity. From the quiet, aching belief that we have to compete to be chosen.

I’ve lived enough—and lost enough—to know how empty that kind of victory feels. How it never fills the void it promises to. And how the real loss isn’t the person you walked away from—it’s the parts of yourself you gave up trying to hold on.

So if you ever find yourself wondering whether the boy is yours, hers, or anyone’s at all—pause. Breathe. Because the moment you have to fight for someone’s attention, you’ve already started abandoning your own.