2nd January, 2026
As a man myself, I feel deep shame so much so that I hesitate to even call myself one. Not because of who I am, but because of what so many others who share my gender have done. The things I've heard, the stories I've been trusted with especially from the women in my life have shaken me to my core. And among them, my girl best friend holds a place I can only describe as sacred. She's more than a friend; she's like a mother to me in the way she's taught me how to be gentle, how to listen, how to care for a woman not with possession or ego, but with respect and tenderness.
We joke sometimes light teasing about her thinning hair, me playfully asking,Why so little hair? And every time, she smiles sadly and says one word: "stress"
But it's not just the usual stress of deadlines or bills or bad days. It's the kind of stress that carves itself into your bones. The kind that comes from being violated by uncles, brothers, cousins, friends… even strangers on the street. The kind that steals your childhood, your safety, your sense of self. When she finally told me, in hushed, trembling words, what "stress" really meant in her life, I sat in silence, my stomach hollow, my hands clenched, my mind screaming in disbelief. How? How can human beings especially those who are supposed to protect become the very source of terror?
And yet, her story isn't rare. It's echoed in too many voices. That's when the phrase "Not all men" rings painfully hollow. Of course not all but someone is. And that "someone" is always real. Always present. Always causing irreparable harm. That truth doesn't comfort it convicts. Because even if I didn't do it, I belong to the group that did. And silence is complicity.
This realization shook me like nothing else ever has. I had no words still don't, really. Just this overwhelming grief, not only for what was done to her, but for how normalized it's become. How casually predators move through the world, untouched, unchallenged, while survivors carry the weight of shame that was never theirs to bear.
But here's something else I've learned: healing is possible. She came out of it not unscarred, but standing. And I'm so fucking glad she did. Her strength isn't loud; it's quiet, resilient, like a tree that keeps growing despite lightning strikes. And her survival has taught me something vital: that being a man doesn't have to mean dominance or conquest. It can mean protection without control. Care without expectation. Listening without defensiveness.
I also see now how toxic masculinity the glorification of aggression, the suppression of vulnerability, the obsession with power fuels this cycle. Lust, in its purest form, isn't evil. But when it's twisted by entitlement, by the belief that a body is a thing to be taken rather than a person to be honored, it becomes one of the Seven Deadly Sins: "lust" not as desire, but as destruction. And the p*rn industry especially the violent, degrading kind doesn't just reflect that sickness; it feeds it. It blurs the line between fantasy and reality, teaching men to see women as objects, not humans. It fades the peace we all crave and replaces it with hunger that can never be satisfied, only repeated.
I used to scroll through that content too. Not the extreme stuff, but enough to know it was hollow. And over time, I realized how it numbed me how it made intimacy feel cheap, how it distorted my understanding of connection. Getting out of that cycle was one of the best decisions I've ever made. Clarity returned. Empathy returned. I started seeing people not just bodies again.
If there's anything I want to say to anyone reading this, especially to other men: *be careful*. Be careful with your actions, your words, your silence. Be careful with how you consume media, how you talk about women, how you treat the vulnerable. And more than that "understand people". Seek to understand before you speak. Listen when someone tells you they're hurting, even if it makes you uncomfortable. Especially then.
Because the world *can* be better. It starts with us men doing the hard, quiet work of unlearning the poison we've been fed. It starts with honoring the women in our lives not as accessories or ideals, but as full, complex human beings with histories we may never fully know. It starts with calling out other men, even when it's awkward. Even when it costs you friends.
My girl bestie taught me that. She didn't have to. She could've shut me out, and I would've understood. But she trusted me with her pain and in doing so, gave me a chance to become better. That's a gift I'll never take for granted.
So today, on January 2, 2026, I mourn what's been lost. I rage at the injustice. But I also choose hope not a naive hope that pretends evil doesn't exist, but a stubborn, active hope that says: "I will not be part of the problem. I will be part of the healing."
For her. For every survivor. For the next generation of boys who deserve to learn love, not lust.
And for the love of the universe please, understand people. See them. Hear them. Protect them.
That's the only way forward.