Silicon Valley's Dating Drought: Why Founders Are Choosing Celibacy

At 18 years old, Mahir Laul has already made a calculated choice that defines his generation. He took a leave of absence from New York University this past fall to work full-time on his HR tech startup, Velric. While his classmates are taking shots and hooking up, Laul is coding and lifting weights.

"There's two things that I care about the most: the gym and my work," he says. His love life, by his own admission, is "in the gutters." This isn't an isolated case—it's a cultural shift sweeping through Silicon Valley's young founders.

The industry's upstarts are pounding through hours-long coding sprints, working 996 schedules (9 a.m. to 6 p.m., six days a week), and proudly announcing to investors and followers that they've gone "monk mode" in service of scaling their startups. For many in this hustle class, "it's time to build" means there's no time to date.

Founders don't just skip dating—they analyze it through the same lens they apply to their businesses. Daivik Goel, the 27-year-old founder of payroll platform Shor, explains the parallel: "A good relationship is like a good startup. It takes a lot of time to nurture at the beginning if you want to do them right."

For now, he only has the bandwidth to nurture one. Like many of his founder friends, he's not on any dating apps and doesn't seek out hookups at bars. "I haven't had the time to really invest yet," he says.

The math is stark. Annie Liao, 24-year-old founder of AI learning startup Build Club, frames it in pure business terms: "The opportunity cost is really high. Every night you spent out is time you could have spent building your startup."

She adds that most founders wait until their startup is more stable—like Series B funding—before even considering romance. Her founder roommates don't date either; they hook up occasionally for fun, but only if they avoid getting "emotionally attached."

"For those working seven days a week on their startup, opening Hinge is a big, big distraction."

The tech mindset has bled into how founders approach romance itself. Some blame the dating recession on tech workers treating dating like an extension of their work—complete with metrics and optimization.

Liao says her male friends often give women numerical ratings, "like KPIs." These scores are out of 10, offering what she describes as a "numerical logical quantification justified in their brains to help them make an informed decision on who to date."

This analytical approach extends to professional matchmakers' clients. Allie Hoffman, founder of dating event The Feels, says her San Francisco clients frequently ask: "Am I going to meet my unicorn here?"

Amy Andersen, CEO of Linx Dating, observes that founders who've spent years focusing on "optimization" and "ROI" now approach her seeking an equally perfect partner. "People want to biohack love," Hoffman says. "They're not necessarily thinking intelligently."

Startup advisor Dylan Oriundo identifies another factor: fear. Founders aren't just afraid to give up precious building time—they're also skeptical of potential suitors' motives. "They're not going to want me because I don't have enough money," he says. "Once I reach a certain goal, they're just going to want me for my money."

Even if founders had time, the city itself presents challenges. San Francisco has long had a reputation for its poor dating scene, with multiple factors contributing to the drought.

The "ratio"—the perceived numbers gap between men and women—looms large. The city is comprised of 51% men and 49% women, which some men say gives women the dating edge. Within tight tech circles, the disparity grows even wider: women account for just 13.2% of startup founders in 2023 and about a quarter of the tech workforce.

"If you're straight and a guy, there's just not that many women," says Wesley Tian, cofounder of AI photo platform Aragon.

Some founders have resorted to unconventional solutions. Tian says some of his friends "import" people from other cities—traveling to another hub, meeting someone, convincing them to do long-distance, and eventually getting them to move to the Bay Area. Others are simply relocating entirely, with some of Tian's friends moving to New York for better dating prospects.

Filip Kozera, founder of Y-Combinator-backed Wordware, finds that most women in San Francisco are interested in tech rather than creative pursuits. He mainly goes to Europe to date and even shares a plan to "fix" the city: take 10,000 women from Miami, teach them that "having a boat is not the most important thing in life," and ship them to San Francisco.

Not everyone is locked out. Those in tech's rising class who are dating typically found their partners long before launching their companies. Yang Fan Yun met his girlfriend during his first semester at Stanford, years before he cofounded browser assistant startup Composite. They dated throughout college and went long-distance when she moved to New York while he stayed in the Bay Area.

"Being in a relationship is really helpful for building the company," Yun says, describing his girlfriend—who works at a bank—as a constant supporter and the company's first product tester.

Some founders are finding creative workarounds. I heard descriptions of first dates where pairs work side-by-side. Other tech couples are finding each other on what some call the hottest new dating app: LinkedIn.

When investor Shruti Gandhi at Array Ventures was asked if young founders are using actual dating apps, she laughed. "Yeah," she says, "to network."

There are also demographic exceptions. Queer daters may be better off, unencumbered by San Francisco's ratio and finding a flourishing LGBTQ+ scene. Jia Chen, cofounder of Sorcerer, grew up in Michigan and found bigger populations of queer and East Asian daters in San Francisco. "There are so many accomplished girls that are very multidimensional," she says.

The current landscape reflects a broader cultural moment in tech. While Silicon Valley's early days were marked by mixing work with play—staff tripping on ayahuasca and canoodling in "cuddle puddles"—the white-collar job apocalypse and cutthroat AI race have created a more hardcore environment.

Corporate card purchases on Saturdays have spiked in the Bay Area, and foot traffic at San Francisco office buildings was up 21.6% year over year in July, the highest uptick among major cities.

Yet the human need for connection persists. Sean Horan, a professor of communications at Fairfield University who studies romance and the workplace, points to theories of "positive life-to-work spillover."

"If my personal life is fulfilled, I'll actually be happier at work, which should contribute to productivity."

The future Zucks and Bezoses yearn for their Priscilla Chans and MacKenzie Scotts. As tech titans like Elon Musk and Peter Thiel warn about fertility crises, the pressure to build both companies and families simultaneously creates an impossible calculus for many young founders.

For now, the dating scene remains frozen, with founders choosing to lock themselves away from romance in service of their ambitions. Whether this represents a temporary phase or a permanent shift in Silicon Valley culture remains to be seen.