It's Hard To Be A Man In This World

Not Silent Anymore

Throughout my working career people either loved me or hated me. I’m a workhorse and solution architect.

I don’t expect other people to be like me, but I do expect them to do the right thing and follow through on their word.

If you tell me you want an XYZ outcome, I expect you to do the activities that will lead to it. Not just “put it out to the universe” or on some “honey do list” and wait for it to manifest.

There’s something to be said for integrity. Quiet, unglamorous, consistent integrity.

It’s never been flashy. It’s never won popularity contests. But it builds lives.

It keeps things from falling apart. And for that reason, people either try to extract from it—or destroy it.

None of them ever had the peace of mind to care for me.

Instead, they wanted me to suffer. They wanted me cold and crying.

Their sick sense of “her vs. me” mentality—ignorant audacity in its lowest form.

Jealousy and entitlement. Feigned innocence while inflicting harm.

Do unto others, be damned.

How could I have been so stupid and so blind for so long?

I’ve had to reckon with that question more times than I can count.

Because it’s not that they didn’t know better. It’s that they didn’t care to.

They found comfort in their own delusion—and used mine against me.

Women say:

“I’m better looking than her, aren’t I?”

“You like my cooking better than theirs, don’t you?”

“You think I’m a better [FILL IN THE BLANK] than [WHOEVER], right?”

And somehow men entertain this shit!

Hollow and shallow sentiment conditioning, yet men buy it. And then they breed it.

Then the women wail on about not being respected. Not being treated fairly. Not being given the world, simply for existing.

Respect is not something you beg for. It’s something you embody. But embodiment requires depth. It requires self-governance. And this world, let’s be honest, it rewards neither.

Then those of us who actually spent our lives working for a living paid more and got less, while the whores wily enough to land slave-husbands broadened their appeal.

We were asked to pick up the slack, carry the load, smile through it, and be grateful we weren’t one of “those women.”

But who really paid the price?

Now they get special treatment and paid time off for being “moms”.

Do you have kids? No? Good. You can work more in place of the ones who do, so they can take theirs to practices and doctors, and whatnot. You can pay higher taxes, put a higher percentage of your household income toward basic human needs, and have less disposable income. After all, you don’t have all that extra expense of more mouths to feed.

Food and product manufacturing favors the family, so you’ll pay more per pound for needing less, and have more waste for your dollars spent.

There’s no scaling for the individual anymore. Just assumptions.

There’s no sense in being mindful of energy consumption since there’s always a minimum you’ll have to pay, based on the neighborhood’s averages to justify minimum utility costs, spreading the field so the lovely people who choose the joy of parenthood don’t get saddled with the consequences.

Single people can afford to pay more. Right?

And how about school tax?

We’ve built a society where the cost of choosing not to replicate dysfunction is… more dysfunction.

Where sacrifice is punished.

Where clarity is resented.

Where silence is expected from the ones holding it all together.

But I’m not silent anymore.

Contrary to what you probably hear, the system isn’t broken. It’s working exactly as it was designed to.

It rewards dependency and performance, emotional instability and theatrical identity—while draining those of us who chose to build, support, and contribute without complaint.

It was never about fairness. It was about function. And the function has been to funnel resources to the most reactive and entitled players on the board while the responsible ones—those of us who don’t have children, who choose not to keep marrying into dysfunction or make some sad sack cover our bills, who didn’t manipulate to get our desires met—we’re left to carry the weight. Quietly. Invisibly. Completely.

Somewhere along the way, parenthood became a subsidy program. Families became the excuse. And those of us who don’t conform to that structure? We’re treated like we owe more because we didn’t expect more.

Work more. Pay more. Buy more. Give more.

While we watch everyone else complain, squander, and waste everything they were given without an ounce of appreciation.

Sitting around, scrolling through videos and playing stupid games on their handhelds, not even mindfully enough to put earbuds in and spare the rest of us actually using our brains and time to be productive. They think it’s so cute.

The irony is, we were the ones who actually believed in equality. We argued for it. We went to war for you.

We believe in working alongside men, not against them. We don’t want power to dominate—we want it to be shared in love, in respect, in co-creation.

And yet, we’re the ones who get fucked. Because we aren’t pretending. We aren’t performing. We aren’t manipulating. We’re just showing up. And apparently, that’s no longer enough.

Today’s culture bends to those who scream the loudest, who feel the most fragile, who threaten to fall apart unless everything is padded, coddled, and adapted to their dysfunction.

Meanwhile, men can’t even breathe without being accused of harm.

Can’t even feel without being called weak.

Can’t even want a woman who brings peace, softness, or warmth without being labeled a misogynist.

What they’re actually starved for is something most women don’t even know how to offer anymore.

Because they were never taught. And they never bothered to learn.

And we wonder why men are collapsing or acting out.

Why they’re checked out.

Why they’re drunk or stoned or quiet or distant or so far inside themselves they can’t come back out.

Why they can’t get it up without a pill.

They’re not broken because they’re men.

They’re broken because they’ve been betrayed.

First by their mothers. Then by the women who told them, “I’m not like the rest,” and turned out worse.

It’s hard to be a man in a world like this.

Harder still to be one who keeps trying.

And maybe hardest of all to be a woman who sees it, who wants to honor it, and has no place to put that truth.

Because the women who took over as trophies weren’t ready.

And the women who were ready? We weren’t allowed in.

This isn’t about going backward. This is about restoring right order.

Men weren’t meant to be emotional slaves or bank machines.

Women weren’t meant to rule through pity, performance, or punishment.

And children weren’t meant to be raised by iPads, hysterical mothers, and checked-out fathers who gave up trying to win.

What we need now isn’t more progress. We need alignment.

We need responsibility.

We need functional boundaries.

We need real mothers. Real fathers. Healthy parents. Mindful parents.

People who don’t run when the weight of care gets too heavy.

Because we’ve trained entire generations to run.

To avoid.

To perform.

To take without giving, and to believe that the only thing standing in the way of their happiness is someone else’s boundaries or entitlement.

I’ve lived on the edge of that for years. Supporting other people so they could live “balanced” lives.

Giving my time so they could be home with the families they keep screwing over.

Working harder, earning less, being told I was too much, too serious, too needy, too intense, too hard to be around.

But I’m not the problem.

I’m the answer no one was ready for.

Soon enough, the women comfortable with the Taylor Swift and Kardashian-style fan grid can either get behind me, or they can get under me. I don’t care.

But what I won’t do anymore is be hunted, tortured, shamed, and discarded due to jealous bitches who can’t hold a candle to my clarity, let alone my care.

My father.

My brother.

My friends.

My lovers.

All gone wayward.

Not because they were bad.

But because they were too weak to stand in the presence of something real.

And so were the women who tried to possess them.

And now we’re here.

This moment.

This reckoning.

This choice point.

You either see what’s happening—or you’re part of it.

And if you’re part of it, you will be removed.

Not by me.

By your own consequences.

Because I’m not asking to be followed.

I’m declaring what’s already true.

Because I remember what it’s supposed to look like.

I remember the man who stands firm—not because he’s loud, but because he’s clear.

Who doesn’t need to dominate, because his presence is already enough.

Who protects without pride, and provides without requiring praise.

Who gives and takes like an exquisite dance.

Who holds space for me to stand strong on my terms, even though he can’t face me anymore.

Who lives close to God, even if he doesn’t call it that.

I remember the woman who holds the home like an altar.

Not for status.

Not for performance.

But because she knows that peace begins where she stands.

She tends to her word like a garden, and moves through the world in devotion—not to an identity, but to truth itself.

I remember children whose eyes aren’t filled with confusion.

Whose spirits aren’t dulled by screens and screaming.

Children who feel safe. Who are seen—guided by adults who’ve earned the right to lead.

I remember a people who knew how to build without needing to destroy.

Who didn’t hide behind movements, or weaponize wounds, or demand to be worshiped for surviving.

People who loved order—not because they were controlled, but because they were free.

And I didn’t come here to beg for it to return. I came here to rebuild it.

You don’t have to agree with me.

You don’t even have to understand me.

But if you’re honest, you’ll feel it.

Things are shifting.

And I’m not here to be liked. I’m here to tell the truth.

I’m not asking for anything. I’m just done pretending.

So if this hits something in you—good. Let it.

If it doesn’t—you still aren’t ready. But that’s okay.

I came back to make it right.