My sons experienced a father who often wasn’t present. His involvement varied based on what suited him — whether he wanted to appear as a good dad or a cool one. It seemed he could never achieve both simultaneously. His interest hinged on how much he wanted his sons to be visible in his life and how that visibility could serve his own needs. My sons felt this absence. They still do. Many families share this story.
It’s a story so prevalent that I see a reflection of it in a troubling phenomenon: the rise of the manosphere. This is what Louis Theroux explored in his challenging Netflix documentary Inside the Manosphere.
I watched that documentary from start to finish, not once but twice. Each moment was uncomfortable, yet I hoped to recognize something relatable in the men who take pride in their toxic behavior towards women. Many of these men were also raised without steady father figures. I searched for a sense of sympathy for them, thinking of my own sons, and contemplated whether I might excuse their actions as easily as one young man’s mother did.
But then I reflect on my own sons. They do not identify with this group. They express disdain for the manosphere, barely acknowledging it beyond a roll of the eyes. So no, I do not see my sons in these angry, resentful men who seem to throw endless tantrums for all to observe.
I notice no warmth in these men, no vulnerability, no tenderness.
What strikes me most are the young men who look up to them, especially two featured in the documentary. This part is heart-wrenching. They are searching for guidance. One has suffered the loss of a brother to suicide, battled unemployment, and lived in his car for a year. In his quest for improvement, he turns to the manosphere for answers, hoping to find a path. He lifts weights on the beach and shares high-fives with others, convinced this is the answer.
I feel fortunate that, despite their father’s absence, my sons had strong male figures in their lives — something conspicuously missing for many boys in the manosphere.
I remember my older sons’ teachers from when they were young, around 7 and 9, having just been affected by my divorce and their father’s lack of interest. Both teachers were men, full of humor and intelligence. I would see them while volunteering, dancing and singing along to Christmas music or playing soccer during recess. They exhibited tenderness, unashamed of their silliness.
When one of my sons was upset after losing a basketball game, his teacher took the time to comfort him. I am not privy to their discussion, but I know my son listened intently. His demeanor changed, and he returned to me with a smile. He grew into a man who didn’t need the manosphere to find his way.
These teachers had a profound impact on our lives. They offered my sons an example when they felt lost, giving them permission to express vulnerability and embrace their silliness. They taught all of our children that feeling foolish or appearing weak is not something to fear. Instead, it can lead to joy and freedom.
My older sons now model this behavior for their younger brothers. They support and challenge each other, learning not to take themselves too seriously, partly because they respect men who are funny, smart, and full of life.
To me, the manosphere appears bleak. It resembles a place where boys are abandoned, left alone to navigate their confusion without guidance. It is a sorrowful and dangerous trap, a path that circles back on itself.
I am grateful my sons avoided that snare. Yet I recognize the risk they could have faced — if not for those few good men who guided them towards a different way.
