There have been many amazing pieces that pierce straight to the heart of the issue—succinctly breaking down the fragile house of cards that the ‘manosphere’ really is.

But after all of that, I’ve had to sit with my own thoughts and questions on it— giving myself time to truly flesh out an understanding of this pervasive issue.

I look at it through the lens of my own lived experience as a privileged, white male. Having first-hand experience of living within the cultures, institutes and systems that create this kind of ideology and allow it to thrive.

I understand it because I was conditioned and shaped by it. And more than that, because I am also someone who has upheld it and been a continuation of it.

A large part of my recovery journey was learning how the systems around me shaped my beliefs and led me to self-destruction through lack of purpose and worth. I know intimately the corrosiveness of what this kind of messaging does to a human (regardless of gender).

To me, the ‘manosphere’ is basically a fat loss pill. A get ripped quick scheme being peddled by someone who has what you want, and promises to give it to you fast. It’s the 2026 version of the ab-swing. Get six pack abs in your lounge room while you watch tv.

But in this case, it’s not six pack abs on sale—it’s connection, direction and meaning.

Instead of a quick solution to weight loss—it’s offering a quick solution to patriarchy.

What it offers young men is an immediate solution to the lack of purpose, community and fulfilment in their lives. And the reason why it’s so persistent and hard to quell, is because it pairs itself perfectly with the comfort culture we have created for ourselves.

Educating yourself is hard work, and it takes time. Personal development and real growth is hard work, and it takes time. Reflecting on your past and confronting your mistakes is hard work, and it takes time.

Unfortunately, we live in an age addicted to short cuts. We live in an age where people don’t want struggle, hardship or challenge. Everyone wants it easy.

We want the fat loss pill, not the diet and lifestyle change. We want the ab-swing, not the 5 gym sessions a week. We want Ozempic, not a Sunday 10km run.

And now boys and men are being sold the same shortcut emotionally and intellectually.

For centuries, the wheels of society have been greased for men. We didn’t need to be the best person in the room to get the job. We didn’t need to fight for social recognition and validation daily. We didn’t need to develop emotional quotient to be in healthy relationships with others. We didn’t need to cultivate ourselves as competent humans.

Our success, freedom and security were guaranteed to us the moment we were born with a penis.

But it came at a cost. And that cost was our emotional worlds. Patriarchy told us that our worth and importance came in how much we had, how much we earned, and how much we produced.

Patriarchy created generations of men that were externally successful, but internally void. So, was it ever truly success, freedom and security?

Now society is changing, and we are refusing to rise to what’s being asked of us and change with it. And rather than doing our own hard work, we’ve turned toward resentment.

The ‘manosphere’ is us saying, “change is hard, just give me the pill that means I don’t have to do anything but will still get results.” Unfortunately, long-lasting change has no short cuts.

Women are gaining access to everything that was previously forbidden them: opportunity, education, capital, career, autonomy (and the list goes on). And they are EXCELLING.

Why? Because they did the hard work. Through adversity they had to develop themselves as well-rounded, capablehumans. They took responsibility for the truly important things in life. Love, connection, intimacy, family, community. And once those things became coupled with equality, they have prospered.

While we as men didn’t need to develop, because patriarchy guaranteed our trajectory and made us forgot what is truly important in life.

We traded love for money. We traded intimacy for domination. We traded connection for power. We traded community for status.

And now it’s time to pay the piper.

To use analogy again, we have become fat and lazy. And instead of doing the hard work at the gym to get into shape—we are turning to the fat loss pill being peddled by other men who don’t care for our wellbeing or our lives. They only care about lining their pockets.

The answer we seek as men (regardless of age) is not a quick or easy one. It’s going to be hard work, and it’s going to take time. And it begins with educating ourselves.

It’s reading books (fiction and non-fiction). It’s going to therapy. It’s learning your internal language. It’s re-integrating the parts of ourselves that patriarchy/masculinity/capitalism forced us to divorce to survive. It’s mapping our internal and emotional worlds. It’s returning to love, vulnerability, and intimacy. It’s embracing our creativity and passion. It’s embracing our weakness and imperfection. It’s embracing our humanity.

We were born with inherent worth. We do not need to perform for other men and receive their validation to earn our right to belong. Especially not the men who use shame as their tool to strip you of your soul—and profit from you being broken.

Women are not the problem—and the ‘manosphere’ is not the answer. There is no magic pill, quick fix, or six pack abs while you watch tv.

The answer has always resided within you. Finding it is hard work and it will take time. But it is the single most important undertaking of your life.

The first step you must take is vulnerability. The second step is compassion. From there your feet are yours to follow.

It has a limited amount of pages upon which you can scribe. You do not know how many pages you have though, and you will not know when you are penning your finale. This is not morbid, this is empowering.

The good news is: you get to write the most wondrous story ever told. You get to draw the map that leads to your treasure.

The bad news is: the world will constantly try and draw you away from the writing of your novel. It will want you to focus on other novels, becoming envious, spiteful.

What you must remind yourself of constantly, is that when you focus on others—you hand them the pen to your novel. The limited pages you have, are now being filled in by someone else’s hand. Your story is now theirs to write—and your map leads not to your treasure, but to the souls abyss.

So take the pen back. Seize your power. Guard your pages fiercely. Write your adventure.

Focus on yourself! Become so incredibly immersed in the writing process of your life that everything else falls away. Mark your path forward, and do not stray from it; look neither to the left or right, only ahead.

This is the most important story you will ever create. You are the writer. Never forget who holds the pen. Never allow others to fill your pages with their ink.

We see only sculptures, crafted for us

We do not see beneath the portraits

The souls that wage war

Beneath imitating paint

We do not witness the wars being waged

They make no sound

They leave no mark

No rivers of red

I have waged war with breaths

That felt like drowning

Opened eyes to mornings

With an effort like heaving stones

I learned how to smile

With a mouth full of coals

How to laugh with a chest

Engulfed with ash

My hardest battles

Weren’t fought with the world

They were fought in the dark

In silence

In secret

They were fought against pain,

against lack,

against loss.

They were fought against the silhouetted figure

Who knew the name of my heart

And only used it

To hurt me

To survive in the world

Receives applause and praise

To survive yourself

Is to trudge a road

Surrounded by silence

Fogged in mist

Further into the darkness

Every step a negotiation

A barter, a compromise,

A, one last time

Seeking reprieve in dream

Praying for a ceasefire

Knowing it would only last till morning

To once again find myself

Back on the road

Oblivion bides

At the edge of awareness

A small price to pay

When shrouded in shame

But I know what it cost to stay

I know the price

of choosing life

again and again

without applause

without witness

without hope

But when the mist lifts

And light illuminates your surrounds

You discover a home

Where gentleness lives,

where magic abides.

A home that sees not with eyes

A home that peers deeper

A home that sees with its heart,

With love

This home sees the way you listen,

the way you stay,

the way you make space

for others to breathe.

This home is yours

Your soul is the key,

the door will never be locked.

Return,

Home.

I stepped through, crossing the threshold, and the instant I did I felt the temperature drop. It made the doorway feel like a portal into an alternate world—I revelled at the thought of it in my mind.

My foot landed firmly on a pine floorboard, one of many that formed the veranda of my Grandma’s homestead.

For a moment I was aware of the different textures pressed against the soles of my feet—smooth and emotionless linoleum beneath one foot, and the firm, contoured grain of weathered pine beneath the other.

Then the sensation ceased. My foot lifting from the kitchen floor as I took my second step, entering this alternate world completely.

I made my way quickly to the edge of the veranda, the sensation in my bladder building to a crescendo. I don’t know why I enjoy peeing outside so much, but there’s just something about the clean night air and buzz of insects that makes this seem like the natural place to perform the act. If you ask me, everyone else is strange for doing it inside.

I curl my toes over the lip of the pine—ensuring none of my stream will land on the timber—and unzip my fly. Once in position, I quickly gauged wind speed and direction, making certain the risk of self-irrigation is low. Once confident I am not in any danger, I release the pressure that has built within me—relief floods through me.

There is just enough glow coming through the kitchen doorway to illuminate my stream. It looks to me like a translucent laser beam, arching out into the darkness beyond.

I listen to the sound of the countryside around me as I finish my solo mission. The sound of an insect cricking nearby brings a comforting peace with it—a fleeting peace, but peace nonetheless.

I finish, and shake three times. Why three? I have no idea. That is just something else that brings me peace.

I zip up my fly and turn, aiming to journey to the loungeroom where my family has migrated to after dinner.

I take one step and freeze.

Locking eyes with my grandmother who is sitting soundlessly in her rocking chair near the wall.

“Grandma!” I yelp, caught between embarrassment and shock.

She stares at me, her expression unreadable. Then, after what seems an eternity, her lips curl into a smile, before breaking apart as a laugh escapes from her chest.

She laughs in a way that I have never heard from anyone else. It is both deep and soft at the same time, a sound that wraps itself gently around you. It is—I assume—a laugh that only one who has carried the weight of decades can produce. It has a tender melodic cadence to it.

“I was going to say something to you,” Grandma says, her tone as joyful as her smile. “But you were so intent on what you were doing. I didn’t want to break whatever spell you were under.”

She places her open palms on her thighs, tapping them twice—an invitation.

“Are you too old to cuddle with your grandma?” She asks, the corners of her lips lifting softly.

I beam a teethy smile. “Never!” I exclaim, running to her and jumping into her lap.

She lets out a low humph as I land, before wrapping her arms around me, drawing me into her warmth.

“You’re getting too big, too quickly.” She rubs my back with one hand. “Where has my little grandson gone?” She asks.

“I’m right here, Grandma.” The words come out muffled, my mouth pressed into the crook of her shoulder.

“Of course you are, my darling,” she says quietly. “Just promise me, no matter how big you get, you’ll always give me cuddles.”

“I promise.” I reply instantly.

We cuddle in silence for a while, the cricking insect nearby continuing to hum its tune, others beginning to join in.

“What are you doing out here, Grandma?” I ask, my head now turned sideways.

“I was talking to your Poppy,” she replies, no jest in her voice.

“Poppy,” I echo, curiosity embedded in my words. “But Poppy isn’t here any more, Grandma.” I remind her.

She chuckles, and with my head on her chest, I feel its low, deep vibration within.

“And who told you that, my sweet?” She asks.

“Dad,” I say. “He told me Poppy had gone to heaven, and he’d be up there waiting for us.”

Grandma shifts slightly beneath me, tightening her arm around my back.

“Oh, my darling,” she murmurs. “Your Poppy is closer than you think. Always right there when you need him.” She tips her head toward the open night. “All you have to do is look up at the stars.” I lift my head from her chest.

“The stars?” I asked.

She nods, her eyes softening. “Mm-hm. He’s joined all the others up there. Watching over us.”

She runs her hand through my hair. “His love is what makes him shine, so even though he’s all the way up there. We can still see him.”

I follow her gaze out over the paddocks, letting mine rise with hers. The sky is moonless and brimming with stars. Each one glistening and alive—a sea of sparkling souls.

“There he is,” Grandma whispers, pointing with her finger. “Your Poppy. Right there among all the others.”

We look out together, staring out into the endless ocean of light.

“What do you talk to Poppy about?” I ask.

Grandma chuckles again, the sound rumbling through her into me.

“Oh, I tell him everything,” she says. “What we had for dinner, how the kids are, how the garden’s going… How big you’re getting.” She nudges me gently with her elbow. “He likes hearing about you the most.”

“He does?” I ask.

“Why yes, of course,” she replies. “You were his favourite.”

A wide smile stretches across my face, and I look back up at the stars.

“Can I tell him something, Grandma?”

“Of course you can. He’s listening.”

I pause, thinking about my words, then begin.

“Hello, Poppy. You were the best Grandad in the world. I miss you. I am so happy that you get to be a star now.”

I turn to look at Grandma again.

“That was beautiful, sweetie.” Her words come strained, voice thin, as though she’s trying to steady it. I can see stars reflecting in her eyes, now glassy with tears.

“I don’t want you to become a star, Grandma.” I say quietly.

“We all become stars, little one.”

“Well… I want you to make me a promise then.” I request. “When you become a star, save me a spot next to you. So when I’m a star too, we can still cuddle.”

She laughs again—the same sweet, enveloping melody—and runs her fingers through my hair once more.

“I’ll save you a spot so we can cuddle as stars.”

She squeezes me tight.

“I promise,” she whispers.

Here’s what I see as the truth. Masculinity and femininity aren’t structures to live in or adhere to. They’re energies. Both men and women carry them. Both matter. Both belong. Neither more than the other. In fact, if they’re out of balance, then they become troublesome.

I have plenty of traits people would call ‘feminine’. I’m soft as warm butter. I like to cuddle. I hate harshness. I just want to love people, nurture them, and tell them they’re beautiful. I believe in magic. I want everyone to believe in magic. The magic that exists in everyday world, and the magic that exists within them.

Many would tell me that’s not manly (mostly other men). But I don’t care. Those are my favourite parts about myself. They are the child in me that sees the world through love and wonder. Not cruel conditioning.

I don’t wake up every morning wondering if what I’m doing is ‘masculine’. I wake up wondering if my actions align with my values. That’s what matters to me. It’s far more important to me to be a man of value and integrity than it is to be a ‘masculine’ man.

So fuck masculinity.

It’s time we as men cast it aside. It’s time we stop chasing this vague, undefinable ideal and instead embrace all the shunned inner children within us who are crying out to be heard. Those young boys need us. The versions of us who knew exactly who were, before the world made us discard them through conditioning and shame. Those beautiful fragments of our soul.

It’s time we as men start to embrace our softness. Embrace our creativity. Embrace our tenderness, our imagination, our wonder. That’s where our strength lies.

Because masculinity is failing men, young and old. Men are crippled by shame and fear. Boys are growing up in a world where they don’t even know what they’re supposed to be anymore. They’re told to “be a man” but never told what being a man actually means. They’re left grasping for a sense of belonging, wondering where they fit in to the world. Lost and confused about the very qualities and traits that could make them whole.

Masculinity doesn’t say “this is how to be a man.” Instead it says, “this is how to not be a woman.” It says that emasculation should be your greatest fear and you should sprint in the opposite direction.

Strength doesn’t come from dominance or authority. It comes from vulnerability. From standing in your truth, no matter what you fear the world will say about it. From opening your heart even when it risks being broken. From being the shoulder that holds firm under someone else’s tears and holds space for their emotions.

Courage isn’t the absence of fear. It’s knowing that fear is a scared younger version of yourself expressing its worry. Courage is holding that versions hand and saying, “I know it’s scary, but hold my hand and come with me. Let’s do this together.” Courage is believing in your dreams, even when no one else does. Courage isn’t being ready to attack. It’s the willingness to stand your ground.

Success isn’t how much money you earn, how big your house is, how much weight you can lift, or how many women you’ve had sex with. Success is looking at yourself in the mirror and being proud of the person looking back. Success is bringing joy to your loved ones and being there for them in a time of need. Success is breathing slowly. Success is moving through the world with kindness.

Leadership isn’t rulership or tyranny. Leadership is inspiration. It’s encouragement. It’s direction. Direction after collaboration and agreement. Leadership is sacrificing the I for the We. Leadership starts internally before it arrives externally.

Believe me when I say I chased the prescribed versions of those characteristics. And I was left a husk. A bag of bones wrapped in skin. Moving through the world without life or intention, and certainly bereft of magic. Continuously transmitting my internal lack and pain into the world.

It ended with me sitting in a rehab facility, surrounded by the shunned of society. And I don’t say that in a demeaning way. They were my fellows, my peers, my equals. My friends.

Connection is the well spring of life. Connection is what feeds our souls. It gets us out of bed with a zest to create and generate. Connection to others. Connection to the world. Connection to meaning and purpose. And most importantly connection to our self. All our self’s.

Unfortunately we fabricate disconnected men. Disconnected from purpose. Disconnected from emotion. Disconnected from the magic of life.

Fuck masculinity.

We don’t need masculinity.

We need connection. We need integration. We need magic.

It’s time to build men of vulnerability, not men of armour.

It’s time to create magicians, not soldiers.