The Comment That Stuck

Recently, I sat in a facilitator training where we were asked to say what we noticed about the makeup of the leadership team that was present. One participant remarked, “We need more women on the team.” As another participant quipped in agreement, "Hear hear!" I looked around perplexed: out of the ten leaders, four were men. There were murmurs of general agreement.

The comment landed the way it so often does these days: as a quick signal of virtue, a reflexive nod to the right side of history. But that moment hit me - one more in a series of moments I've been experiencing lately. I realised how automatic it’s become to assume that men are the ones who need to step back, even in spaces where they’re not the majority, even in spaces where they are an outnumbered and underrepresented minority.

On the surface, that comment was a call for gender balance, but I felt a sting. In that moment, our experiences as men – and the diversity (or lack thereof) among us – were overlooked, as if our presence didn’t count, wasn't valued. This left a lasting impression on me: How easily do men’s experiences get flattened into a stereotype, erased even in spaces meant to be inclusive? Where are all the men’s voices, and why do they so often go unheard? That anecdote is just one example. I understood the good intent – support women’s inclusion – yet it assumed any men present must inherently carry power and don’t need consideration. That the male presence is not valuable.

In leadership and development spaces, I’ve noticed that “gender issues” nearly always means women’s issues. Of course, championing women’s voices and leadership is crucial, as it addresses historic inequity and has many benefits. Yet, in focusing only on one side, we sometimes unintentionally silence or ignore the other. Men’s perspectives often go unspoken or are dismissed as unwelcome.

The Painful Paradox of Men Opening Up

This dynamic doesn’t only occur in group settings – it runs through society at large. Men are frequently told to open up and be vulnerable, that doing so is the antidote to toxic macho culture. But many men have learned, through experience, a harsh lesson: when we do open up, often nobody really listens. A man might tentatively share his mental health struggles or fears, only to have the conversation hijacked – “Women have it hard too, you know” or a quick reminder of his male privilege. The focus shifts away from his pain almost instantly. Suddenly he’s hearing that his feelings are invalid or that he should just “man up” and deal with it. In short, when a man lays down his guard, he’s often met with either indifference, disbelief or outright ridicule.

Even talking about men's issues is difficult, even in circles of coaches who are supposed to be experts in listening and empathy. At the same facilitator training event, when I shared that I feel my next mission is to help men, it was initially met with support from quite a few in the group (this group was 80+% women). Some participants seemed curious to find out more what men are struggling with, which I appreciated. Others signalled their agreement, then added that "Yes, you should help them to open up about their feelings." (a solution often offered up by women to men's issues.) Another remarked that women have it hard too, and the conversation around men was taken over.

In a recent workshop that I held for a group of men in their 20s and 30s, one participant remarked that "We're told to open up, but when I've opened up, I've not been rewarded." This is the experience of many men, trying to be more emotionally intelligent, far from the toxic masculinity stereotypes.

Researcher Brené Brown noted this pattern in her work with men. “We ask men to be vulnerable… but the truth is that most women can’t stomach it,” she writes. “In those moments when real vulnerability happens in men, most of us recoil with fear – that manifests as everything from disappointment to disgust”. Think about that. Culturally, we plead for men to share their feelings, but when they actually do, people (including women who champion emotional expression) may feel uncomfortable or even repulsed. The result? Men learn to pretend to be vulnerable enough to seem “open,” while keeping the raw truth of their struggles hidden. As one man in Brown’s research put it, “They want us to pretend to be vulnerable. We get really good at pretending.”

Some people - often women in my circles - get confused, even threatened or feeling suspicious of me when I share about the issues I face as a man, and the issues my peers tell me they face. Often the conversation is hijacked. But this. But that. I find a sense that I have to justify my feelings and experiences. I don't feel listened to. There is no genuine curiosity - only skepticism. Another participant from that recent men's workshop I ran shared a message with me after the event that when he was telling his friends that he attended our event, the immediate concern was that he was attending some toxic masculinity event.

It feels like a lose-lose situation. Men who remain stoic are labeled as emotionally unavailable, but men who do show vulnerability risk shame or dismissal. Or sometimes additional load - when we share our fears and vulnerabilities or our honesty, we have to end up managing the reactions of others. Society hasn’t quite decided what it really wants from us. Meanwhile, the pain just goes underground. Many guys end up suffering in silence, or expressing pain through anger and isolation, because genuine compassion and space for our hurt can be so hard to find. Over time, men internalize the message that their struggles don’t matter. They stop sharing, stop seeking help, and swallow their pain, which contributes to mental health crises, substance abuse, and tragically high suicide rates among men, or turning to false prophets a la toxic masculinity and the incel movement.

Support Women, And Don’t Forget Men

In the professional and personal development arena, there are now more programs, initiatives, and opportunities designed to uplift women – from women’s leadership retreats to female mentorship circles. This focus is an important response to systemic inequities historic and current. Yet I’ve often felt a poignant absence: equivalent support for men who want to grow in a healthy way. The ones that don't have the privilege of the old boys club or fit into the patriarchal norms.

The assumption is that “men have already had their turn” or that any good man will be fine on his own. In reality, many conscientious, compassionate men feel left out and unseen. These are the men not looking to preserve old patriarchal norms, but also don’t resonate with the increasingly negative caricature of masculinity. They are the good guys trying to do right – and there’s no spotlight on them, no resources being set aside specifically for them.

It's not a zero sum game. Uplifting women should not require abandoning men.

The truth is, a lot of decent men are out there wondering: Where do I belong? We don’t identify with the hyper-masculine stereotypes, nor with the “men = problem” narrative (internalised misandry is actually a huge problem faced with men in my generation, where we internalised the belief that being a man is bad - it's something I had to work hard over many years to overcome). We want to become better leaders, partners, and humans, but rarely get invited into that conversation in our masculinity. When every gender space is framed as women’s empowerment or fixing men’s bad behavior, the message to the average well-meaning man is that his growth doesn’t matter – or worse, that he’s inherently the obstacle to progress. This can breed quiet resentment or disengagement. I’ve seen men simply step back, vacating the field entirely, because they feel any contribution they make will be undervalued or criticized. Or worse, they abandon their masculinity. In the long run, that doesn’t benefit anyone.

The Weight Men Still Carry

Even as society evolves, many of the old expectations placed on men persist. The scripts run deep: Be a protector. Be a provider. Don’t falter. Don’t complain. A man is often still judged by his ability to perform – to achieve, earn, fix, or sacrifice – rather than by how he feels or who he is inside. As many commentators note, “a man’s value is often judged solely (or largely) by his ability to provide.” That is a heavy load to carry, and it is one that is gladly accepted by many men (something we'll explore in another post) but it’s made heavier by the lack of acknowledgment and support. Men are assumed to be fine, to be strong enough to handle anything, so where is the encouragement or gratitude? It’s just expected.

Consider how society relies on men in dangerous, essential jobs without much fanfare. Who maintains the power lines during storms, toils on oil rigs, or collects garbage in the dead of night? Who is sent to the front lines of wars? Largely men. Men account for about 92% of work-related fatalities each year in the US. They literally die at work far more often, often in thankless tasks and in jobs that are looked down upon in modern society. It’s just expected that real men will quietly take the risks. If a man speaks up about feeling like a disposable utility, he’s told he’s imagining it or whining.

This pressure starts young. Boys learn early that showing sadness or fear invites shame (the old “boys don’t cry” refrain). Many of us grow up emotionally undernourished, practicing a kind of quiet stoicism because that’s what was modeled. By the time we’re adults, we’ve internalized the idea that to be a good man is to carry burdens silently. Even as we tell men to open up and be vulnerable, we don't know how to listen to them and how to really support them in the ways they need. Society at large still seems more comfortable seeing a man fulfill a duty than seeing him have an emotional breakdown. So men continue to shoulder expectations – to be the rock for others – even as our own foundation might be crumbling. We do it with little complaint, because complaint is weakness. But the toll on men’s mental health, on our sense of self, is very real.

Modern Dating: Lonely in a Crowd

These societal shifts and expectations also show up in modern dating and relationships. We live in a time where dating apps gamify connection – and the game is rigged. Data from popular apps like Tinder and Hinge show that a small fraction of men get the vast majority of interest from women. One analysis found that the top 10% of men received nearly 60% of all match likes, while the bottom 60% of male profiles got only about 4%. Think about what that means: a huge swath of men (perhaps average guys with decent hearts) are virtually invisible in the digital dating market. This isn’t about blaming women for being “too picky” – it’s a structural outcome of how the apps work, social and relational dynamics. Women, who get inundated with options, understandably become extremely selective, often all focusing on the same high-status or most attractive men. The result is a power-law distribution of attention, where a few men have more potential partners than they know what to do with, and many others are left feeling utterly unseen.

It’s no wonder we see headlines about young men withdrawing from the dating scene. A recent Pew Research study indicated that over 60% of men under 30 are now single, nearly twice the rate of single women in the same age group. That’s a huge gap. It hints at a larger social realignment: young women are, on average, investing in themselves and not pursuing relationships as intently as before, while young men – whether by their own retreat or by lack of opportunities – are increasingly alone. Part of this is certainly self-inflicted (retreating into video games, porn, or simply giving up on trying), but part is a genuine sense of defeat. I’ve heard men say things like, “Unless you’re in the top 5%, it’s like you don’t exist to women.” The pain and resentment in those voices is real. These men feel discarded by a changing economy of love, unsure how to engage or improve. It’s a poignant example of how societal changes (both the empowerment of women and the advent of technology) can leave some men stranded if we don’t pay attention.

The answer isn’t to roll back women’s progress, blame the shifts in dating patterns or methods, or to wallow in self-pity. It’s to recognise the human cost of these shifts. Behind the statistics are real individuals. The guy who gets no matches on Tinder might internalise that as “I’m not good enough; I’ll always be alone.” The man who wants a meaningful relationship but senses women don’t need him or want him may spiral into nihilism or anger. These are modern challenges to male identity that few are talking about outside of toxic online forums. We need healthier conversations about it – one that doesn’t blame women for being selective (they have their own valid grievances in modern dating), but that also doesn’t mock the “lonely single guy” as just a loser in his mom’s basement. How can we help men find a sense of worth and partnership in a world where the old playbook (be a breadwinner, and a woman will automatically need you) is fading? It starts by acknowledging the issue with compassion for both genders.

Not One of the Boys

On a personal note, I grew up feeling like a bit of an alien to typical masculinity. I was a boy who felt things deeply, who didn’t care for sports or locker-room talk, who valued emotional honesty and gentleness. I wasn’t in the “old boys’ club” – in fact, I often found myself more comfortable around girls or in mixed company. Yet, I also am a man. I have a masculine side that enjoys challenge, that can be competitive, and takes pride in strength, protecting and providing. Reconciling these facets of myself has been a journey. There were no roadmaps or “programs” for a boy like me to learn how to be a good man on my own terms. Mostly, I learned by trial and error, and by seeking out mentors much later in life.

I remember searching for guidance or communities of men who were kind, emotionally aware, but still grounded in a healthy masculinity. In my teens and twenties, such spaces were virtually nonexistent. The men’s groups I heard of sounded either like religious men’s ministries focused on traditional roles, or, on the opposite end, pickup-artist seminars steeped in misogyny. Neither was for me. I longed for an affirming space for men – where being a man wasn’t about dominating or retreating in shame, but about growing into authenticity and purpose alongside other men. By and large, the message I got was that if you’re a man and you’re not a hyper-masculine “alpha,” you’re on your own. Society at large wasn’t offering much, because it assumed if you’re not an obvious problem, you don’t need help.

Even within the coaching and personal development world – which is my professional domain – I’ve felt an undercurrent of anti-masculinity at times. In workshops about emotional intelligence or spirituality, I’ve heard facilitators make snide jokes about men’s egos or how “men just don’t get it.” Masculine traits (like assertiveness or analytical thinking) were occasionally treated as “things to be fixed” or as laughable relics. As a naturally compassionate man, I sometimes felt I had to distance myself from other men, almost apologising for my gender by emphasizing how sensitive I was. That’s a sad state of affairs: when even good men feel they must prove they’re not like “those men” just to be accepted. It took me years to realize I don’t have to reject my masculinity to be a caring, empathetic person. My masculinity can be a force for good – the part of me that provides, protects, and leads in service of others, not in domination.

Reweaving Masculinity: A Path Forward

So, where do we go from here? How do we reweave masculinity back into society in a way that’s healthy and generative – affirming to both men and women? First, we start with nuance and compassion. We drop the brittle narratives that “men are the problem” or “men have it easy” and instead acknowledge a more complex truth: patriarchy hurts everyone. Yes, it grants many men privileges, but it also imposes emotional stifling, role expectations, and a profound loneliness on men. Likewise, while women have faced oppression and continue to fight for equality, most women also care about the well-being of their fathers, brothers, sons, and male friends. Most don't want to replace the patriarchy with matriarchy. We’re truly in this together. A society that is hostile or indifferent to men’s inner lives is not a healthy one – just as one that silences women’s voices is unhealthy. Both feminine and masculine energies have essential gifts to offer. Our task is not to elevate one by squashing the other, but to allow each to come through in its best form.

What might that look like in practice? Here are a few ideas:

• Truly listen to men’s stories. When a man shares his pain or fear, resist the urge to immediately compare or point out his privilege. There will be a time for broader context, but in that vulnerable moment, simply hold space. Validate that his feelings are real. Acknowledge his hurt. Often that’s all it takes for a man to feel seen rather than dismissed. Listening is a profound act of respect.
• Create spaces for men’s work. Encourage development programs, support groups, or retreats that are for men – not as echo chambers of complaint, but as crucibles for growth. Just as women’s circles have been vital for female empowerment, men need circles to explore positive masculinity. I’ve started to see small murmurs and rising of men’s groups focused on emotional honesty and accountability, and it’s encouraging. These spaces let men know they’re not alone in their struggles and that being a man can mean being vulnerable, emotionally intelligent, as well as strong. This is the kind of space I’m committed to building.
• Appreciate men’s contributions and burdens. This can be as simple as gratitude. Thank the men in your life for what they do – the dad who reliably fixes things around the house, the colleague who always volunteers for the heavy lifting. Notice and appreciate the protection and support they provide. At the same time, be mindful of the pressures they may be under. The friend who seems “fine” might be quietly battling a fear of failure as a provider or a sense of inadequacy. Let men know that they don’t always have to carry it all alone, that their worth isn’t measured only in outcomes.
• Embrace a new masculine ideal. Rather than the rigid alpha or the bumbling toxic brute, envision masculinity as steady presence. The mature masculine has room for tenderness and tears as well as toughness. He can stand in his power without abusing it. Think of a “protector” archetype – not as a violent avenger, but as someone who creates safety for others. Or the “provider” as one who provides love, wisdom, and stability, not just money. We need cultural narratives (in media, in education) that showcase these evolved masculine traits. When young men see that being a caring teacher, a devoted nurse, or an empathetic leader is just as manly as being a warrior, it expands the possibilities for them.

Finally, we must remember that healing the rift isn’t about finger-pointing – it’s about invitation. I write this not to cast blame on women or on society, but to invite a richer dialogue. The comment “we need more women” at that training was not malicious; it was simply incomplete. Perhaps what we really need is more balance – more women in leadership and more nuanced attention to the men who are walking the path of growth and service. We need more listening in all directions. If women and men can begin to truly hear each other’s pain without defensiveness – women hearing the hurt behind men’s silence, and men hearing the frustration behind women’s calls for change – then we can start to mend the fabric.

Reweaving masculinity means bringing men back into the collective tapestry as whole beings, not cardboard cutouts. It means valuing qualities like courage, protectiveness, and provision when they’re expressed with love, while shedding the violent and domineering excesses of old patriarchy. It means allowing men to reclaim a pride in being men, in a way that isn’t about power over but power with – with women, with community, with their own true selves.

For me, the journey continues. I’m still learning what it means to be a man in this era – a man who leads, who feels, who challenges and supports. But I know this: I no longer want to hide or apologise for my masculinity. I want to offer it – as part of the healing, as part of the solution. And I invite others, of either gender, to help create a world where men’s inner lives are tended to with the same care that we tend to others. Because when men are heard, healed, and supported, they don’t detract from anyone else’s light. They add to the human chorus with their own voice – a voice that has been quiet for too long. It’s time to welcome those voices back. It’s time to ask not in exasperation, “Where are all the men?”, but in earnest, “Men, where are you? We need you here, with us, whole and alive.”