There’s a lot of shame being a man. Of course, some guys try to deny that men need to change at all. (I’m looking at you, Andrew Tate.)
But when I hear about another man committing a mass shooting or another boss sexually assaulting a woman who works for him or another man doing something absurd on a date (like trying to see six women in one night!), I get self-critical. Why do we do this stuff? What’s wrong with us?
I recently saw an Instagram post that turned down the volume on this shame. Therapist Casey Tanner (@queersextherapy) wrote about the “5 girls I’ve tried to be... and why I’m done trying,” including the “nice girl,” “cool girl,” and “mysterious girl.” Tanner wrote about the “girl next door” she’s tried to be:
“Of course I want to be relatable... but not to everyone. I stopped measuring my success by how palatable I am a long time ago. If I move in next door, you probably won’t know what to do with me.”
It made me think about the guys I’ve tried to be. How I’ve often tried to be something I’m not because of the messages boys and men get about so-called “traditional masculinity.” And how trying to be these different guys has cut me off from the vulnerability and authenticity necessary for getting close and connecting with other people.
I’m done trying to be the nice guy.
My dad’s anger scared me when I was a kid, so I learned it was safest to avoid conflict. It seemed like he could fly off the handle at any moment, with no rhyme or reason. One minute he’d be joking and laughing, and the next he’d be yelling at me for not cutting straight lines with the lawnmower.
I learned that if I played nice and kept my true thoughts and feelings to myself, he’d eventually calm down. If I tried to argue back, he’d only get angrier. This pattern has played out in my friendships and relationships since. The “nice guy” part of me shows up when someone is upset with me—or it seems like they might be. I bend over backwards to accommodate them and make sure they’re comfortable, ignoring my own feelings.
But I’ve learned that trying to avoid conflict by being “nice” causes an underlying tension that gets in the way of feeling closer with people who matter to me. Healthy conflict is the only way to build trust and intimacy. Avoiding conflict keeps things comfortable, but it robs relationships of the energy and authenticity needed to deeply connect and know each other. As I’ve learned how to create healthy conflict when needed—saying things like, “I’m feeling angry toward you right now”—my relationships have radically improved.
I’m done trying to be the rock star.
Like many boys, my role models growing up were sports players, actors, and rock stars. Those were the guys everyone seemed to want to be around. They were having fun rather than working a regular 9-5. They were traveling the world rather than being stuck in the suburbs.
I started a band in high school and wrote pop punk songs about girls and escaping my boring town. We played sold-out shows at our local venue and toured the country. But it never felt like enough. There was always some bigger crowd out there somewhere. I felt cool but also unfulfilled and constantly anxious about finding a bigger stage.
My inner rock star wants to be worshipped. It thinks that if I’m in the spotlight, I’ll feel wanted and loved and never feel lonely. But it’s wrong. Striving for the spotlight has kept me from appreciating who and what is right in front of me. It’s kept me from what I really want: connection.
The perfect example is when I was featured in a Bernie Sanders social media video during his 2020 presidential run. One night at dinner, my best friends congratulated me but quickly shifted the topic of the conversation. I was devastated inside. Part of me had hoped they would shower me with attention. It hurt that they had moved on so quickly. I felt lonely even though I was surrounded by people I loved.
I’m done trying to be the hard worker.
From the moment I wake up in the morning, the loudest voice in my head is the part of me obsessed with being productive and knocking out my to-do list. This voice has one gear: “Go, go, go! There’s more to do. If you work hard now, you’ll be better off in the future.” It’s always running in the background, thinking about the emails I need to respond to or newsletter marketing I should be doing or the work on the house that needs to get done.
The problem is the to-do list never ends. The future where all the work is done never comes. I’ve learned that if I let this voice control things, I’ll never rest and eventually burn out. I’ll also struggle to be present with my partner and other people I love.
Capitalism tells us our worth is tied to productivity. “People do accurately recognize that that [in capitalism] we live and die by our ability to work,” says the social psychologist Devon Price. “And so there’s this ... really rational quality to our compulsive overwork that a lot of us have.”
This inner voice is trying to help me survive. But I don’t need it to always be there. I want to work hard when I need to. I also want to relax. I also want to enjoy pleasure. I also want to be present for what and who is right here, right now.
I’m done trying to be the man with a plan.
Growing up, my parents and other adults seemed to expect me to always be in control, fully aware of what I was doing and where I was going, a “man with a plan.” Mark Greene, author of the book Remaking Manhood, explains:
“We’ve been shamed and conditioned into believing we must pretend we already know every damn thing ... Even in infancy, little boys are expected to begin modeling emotional stoicism, confidence, physical toughness, and independence. The strong and silent type remains a central American symbol of ‘real manhood.’”
This came up recently in my relationship. My partner and I often get into little arguments when I’m driving. I didn’t understand why until she shared that when someone who’s driving doesn’t take the route she would, she gets annoyed. This helped me understand why I get so defensive when she questions whether I know where I’m going. A part of me feels threatened. This part thinks that when someone questions my competence that must mean I’m worthless and unlovable. The irony is that my partner is more annoyed when I act like I know when I really don’t.
The reality is I’m human, I don’t always know what my plan is, and I often need help.
I’m done trying to be the performative feminist.
This is the hardest one to write about. I’m still learning about the part of me that wants to be one of the “good guys” in the eyes of women. I think it’s because I grew up with a mom who criticized men who were overtly sexual or had a whiff of being a “player.” If a celebrity started dating again quickly after ending a relationship, she would call him a “dog.”
I got the message early on that men were naturally that way—that we were obsessed with promiscious sex. If I wanted to be a “good” guy, I needed to go out of my way to let women know that I’m different.
Like the “nice guy,” this one gets in the way of connection and intimacy because it’s not authentic. I believe in feminism. One of my big goals for this newsletter is translating feminism for men. But I don’t need to try to be one of the “good guys” in the eyes of women. Because that means there are “bad guys,” and while there are there are men who do and say bad things, but there are no bad men. I don’t want to leave any of my brothers behind.
Now, a question for the comments below: What guys do you no longer want to try to be?
(P.S. If you become a paid subscriber for $5/month, you’ll get my weekly Friday Q&A posts about improving you relationships and friendships, plus the warm feeling of supporting my writing.)
“there are no bad men”
This is simply not true. My mother was murdered by one. And femicide and rape are global public health crises.
This is a thoughtful piece. Therein lies the struggle. I agree with much of what you write… but. I’ve wanted to write about this. But, from the opposite direction. That is, busting the myths about women and how they have much to answer for when it comes to why many modern men are like this, whatever this is.