I spent a good part of my adult life cultivating interests that felt appropriately masculine. Single malt whiskeys I couldn’t really afford, sports teams I followed with an intensity that, looking back, feels more than a little performative. Not that I didn’t enjoy these things, I genuinely did. But there was something underneath it all that felt like I was ticking boxes on an invisible checklist of what a man was supposed to be interested in, supposed to care about, supposed to present to the world.
The thing about conditioned masculinity is that it doesn’t announce itself. You don’t wake up one morning and think “right, today I’ll start performing masculinity to fit social expectations”. It happens gradually, almost imperceptibly, shaped by the men around you, the media you consume, the reactions you receive when you behave in certain ways. You learn what gets approval, what earns respect and what makes other men nod in recognition. And then you become that.
For years, this felt entirely natural. I genuinely believed that my interests represented something authentic about who I was as a man. It wasn’t until I started noticing different expressions of masculinity in certain men I encountered that I began to question whether there might be more to it than the version I had constructed.
The men who showed me something different
What these men had in common wasn’t immediately obvious. They weren’t all built the same way, didn’t share the same interests and certainly didn’t fit a single masculine archetype. Some were quietly spoken, others were animated. Some were physically imposing, others slight. But there was something unmistakable about their presence.
They had an air of peace about them. A settledness. They seemed to have no need to prove anything to anyone, especially to other men. What struck me most was how comfortable they seemed being supportive rather than central, particularly when their friends or partners were receiving attention or recognition. There was no ego bruising, no subtle competition for the spotlight. They were not shy or timid, and yet seemed genuinely content to hold space for others to shine.
I remember one man in particular at a function years ago. His partner was putting on a sensual dance performance that had the entire room captivated. I watched him watching her. Rather than imposing himself and his own needs on the situation, he was simply present, clearly delighted by her performance. He was entirely comfortable with his partner receiving this kind of attention from a crowd made up of mostly men. Based on my experience growing up he had every reason to expect judgement, ridicule even, but he was completely unperturbed. I admired this man, and something about that moment lodged itself in my mind as a different way of projecting masculinity that I’d never seen modelled before.
These men were not performing non-masculinity or deliberately subverting masculine norms. They were simply present, grounded and apparently free from the constant self-monitoring I was becoming aware of in myself. They weren’t less masculine because they weren’t performing it. If anything, their lack of performance made them seem more authentically themselves, which paradoxically felt more masculine than any amount of swagger or bravado.
The slow unravelling of performance
As I’ve grown older, my relationship with masculinity has shifted considerably. The interests I once cultivated because they seemed appropriately masculine have either fallen away or found their natural place as genuine preferences rather than identity markers. What once felt like essential parts of my masculine identity now seem more like props in a performance I didn’t realise I was giving.
What I now associate with my own masculinity has far less to do with external displays and far more to do with internal states. I feel most masculine not when I’m being perceived as masculine by others, but when I’m showing up as myself without particular concern for how that’s being received. There’s a certain irony in this, the less I think about whether I’m being masculine enough, the more grounded and present I feel in my own masculine energy.
This isn’t to say I’m completely free from cultural conditioning or that I’ve transcended all concerns about how I’m perceived. I haven’t. But there’s been a meaningful shift from performing masculinity for external validation to simply inhabiting myself more fully. The difference is subtle but profound.
I feel most masculine these days when I’m completely present in a moment, emotionally settled and free from the need for a particular outcome or response. When I can sit with Evie during a difficult conversation without needing to fix anything or prove anything, when I can hold space for someone’s emotions without making it about my own comfort, when I can set boundaries clearly without aggression or defensiveness. These moments feel masculine to me in ways that external markers of manhood never did.
What masculinity means to me now
The qualities I now recognise as masculine in myself and respect deeply in other men have very little to do with traditional markers of manhood. They’re quiet, more internal and often invisible to casual observers.
I value the capacity to remain emotionally regulated even when situations become uncomfortable or uncertain. This inner peace isn’t about suppressing emotion or pretending everything is fine. It’s about having done enough internal work that you can encounter difficulty without your nervous system immediately going into a threat response.
Strong boundaries represent another quality I’ve come to associate with healthy masculinity. Not the aggressive or defensive reactions that come from insecurity, but clear, calm boundaries that come from knowing yourself well enough to understand what serves you and what doesn’t. Being able to say no without elaborate justification. Being able to hold your ground without needing to dominate or prove anything. This kind of boundary-setting requires tremendous internal security.
Clear, open communication feels deeply masculine to me now in ways that stoic silence never did. Being able to articulate what you’re feeling, what you need and what you observe without making it confrontational or defensive. Being willing to be direct rather than expecting others to read your mind or pick up on hints. This requires vulnerability, which I believe is one of the most deconditioned masculine qualities in our culture.
Vulnerability might be the most masculine quality of all, though it’s rarely framed that way. I’m not talking about weaponised vulnerability where you overshare to draw sympathy or avoid accountability. I mean genuine vulnerability, the willingness to be seen in your uncertainty, your not-knowing, your tender places. To admit when you’re struggling. To ask for support. To acknowledge when you’ve made a mistake.
There’s tremendous strength required for this kind of openness. It’s far easier to maintain a facade of having everything sorted, of being strong and never needing anything from anyone. Actual vulnerability, the kind that involves genuine emotional risk and the possibility of not being received well, requires a groundedness and self-assurance that I’ve come to respect enormously in men who can access it.
The ongoing journey
Discovering and nurturing what feels authentically masculine within yourself is not a destination where you can arrive. It’s an ongoing process of integration, shedding conditioning and discovering what remains when you’re not performing for anyone.
There are still moments when I catch myself slipping into old patterns. When I’m in groups of men I don’t know well, there’s sometimes a subtle pull to perform masculinity in more traditional ways, to signal that I’m “one of them” through familiar markers. I notice this happening and it reminds me how deep this conditioning runs, how much it takes to unlearn decades of socialisation.
But increasingly, I’m able to recognise these moments for what they are and choose differently. To show up as myself rather than as the version of masculinity I think will be most accepted. Sometimes this means being the quiet one in the group. Sometimes it means asking questions that others might see as too vulnerable, or to admit that there is something I don’t know. Sometimes it means being content to support rather than lead.
Each time I choose authenticity over performance, it becomes slightly easier to do it again. The internal sense of what feels masculine to me becomes clearer, more distinct from the cultural noise about what masculinity should look like. This isn’t about rejecting traditional masculine qualities entirely, some of them genuinely resonate with who I am. It’s about discerning which aspects feel authentically mine and which are simply performance.
Permission to be wherever you are
If you’re reading this and recognising aspects of your own journey, or if you’re just beginning to question what masculinity means to you, I want you to know that wherever you are in this process is exactly where you need to be. There’s no ideal timeline for this exploration, no correct pace at which you should be shedding conditioning or discovering authenticity.
Some men find their way to more integrated masculinity earlier in life. Others like myself take decades, and many never quite get there, usually because they’re never given permission to question the scripts they’ve been handed. The fact that you are considering these questions puts you ahead of where I was for most of my adult life.
There is no single correct version of authentic masculinity. What feels masculine to me might not resonate with you at all, and that’s not only fine but expected. We’re not trying to replace one rigid definition of masculinity with another. We’re each finding our own way to inhabit ourselves more fully, which will look different for every man.
You might discover that some traditionally masculine traits genuinely feel authentic to you. You might find that you connect more with qualities that aren’t traditionally considered masculine at all. Most likely, you’ll land somewhere in between, with a unique expression that’s entirely your own. The goal isn’t to perform non-masculinity or to rebel against traditional masculinity. It’s to discover what feels true when you’re not worried about fitting anyone else’s definition.
What this means in practice
This kind of exploration isn’t just theoretical. It has real implications for how you move through the world, how you show up for your family and in relationships, and how you relate to yourself and other men.
In my relationship with Evie, this evolution has meant learning to be present without needing to fix or solve. When she’s processing difficult emotions, my instinct used to be to immediately offer solutions, partly because I genuinely wanted to help but also because her distress was uncomfortable for me. Learning to simply hold space, to listen without agenda and to trust that she’s capable of working through her own experience has been transformative for both of us.
It has meant developing comfort with not knowing. In our work together, there are situations where I genuinely don’t have the answer or the perfect response. Rather than pretending I do or deflecting, I’ve learned to admit uncertainty while staying grounded. This models something important for our clients, that not knowing doesn’t mean incompetence or weakness, it just means being human.
This has changed how I relate to other men as well. I’m more willing to have genuine conversations rather than staying on the surface of safe topics. I’m more able to acknowledge when another man is struggling rather than pretending not to notice. I’m more comfortable expressing appreciation for other men without it feeling awkward or loaded with unspoken subtext.
And perhaps most importantly, it’s changed my relationship with myself. There’s less internal criticism, less monitoring of whether I’m measuring up to some standard. More acceptance of my actual feelings and responses rather than what I think I should be feeling. More willingness to be exactly who I am rather than who I think I should be.
A necessary phase
When I look back on my earlier phases of performing masculinity, the whiskey appreciation and fixation on sports, the seeking of validation through traditionally masculine pursuits, these experiences were neither wrong nor a waste of my time. These were necessary parts of my journey to discovering what feels authentically masculine to me today.
I don’t look back on my twenties and thirties with regret or embarrassment about who I was trying to be. That version of me was doing the best he could with the information and conditioning he was given. He was trying to figure out how to be a man in a world that loudly presented him with scripts and blueprints to follow. And honestly, following those scripts during that time taught me important lessons about what actually resonated with me and what didn’t.
I think very few men are able to skip straight to authentic self-expression without first trying on the versions of masculinity that are readily available through cultural stereotypes and popular role models. It’s through the process of performing, noticing how it feels, recognising what rings true and what feels hollow, that you eventually find your way to something more genuine. The performance phase is not the enemy of authenticity, it’s often the path to it.
Regardless of how you relate to masculinity today, you’re exactly where you need to be. The fact that you’re still reading this, considering what masculinity means for you and the people you choose to show up for, means you’re already on a conscious journey toward a more authentic expression of your own masculinity. Awareness is a significant step on this journey, regardless of where you currently find yourself.
The invitation
If I could offer anything to other men navigating their own relationship with masculinity, it would be this: give yourself permission to question everything you’ve been taught about what it means to be a man. Not to reject it, but to examine whether it actually feels true for you.
Notice when you are performing versus when you’re simply being. Pay attention to which men you respect and why. What qualities do they embody that resonate with you? What feels authentic versus what feels like trying to fit a mold?
Experiment with vulnerability, even in small ways. Notice what happens when you admit you don’t know something or ask for help or acknowledge that you’re struggling. You might be surprised by how rarely this costs you respect and how often it actually deepens connection.
Build the internal capacity to be settled within yourself regardless of external validation. This is perhaps the most important work, developing enough security that you don’t need constant reassurance that you’re masculine enough, successful enough or anything else enough. When you can simply be with yourself without judgment, a different kind of masculinity becomes accessible.
And most of all, be patient with yourself. This is lifelong work, not a weekend project. You’ll slip back into old patterns, you’ll catch yourself performing when you meant to be authentic, you’ll struggle with conditioning that runs deeper than conscious awareness. This is all part of the process.
The journey toward more authentic masculinity isn’t about becoming someone else or achieving some ideal version of manhood. It’s about becoming more fully yourself, stripping away the layers of conditioning to discover what remains when you’re not performing for anyone, including yourself.
This is where I’ve found that real masculinity lives. Not in external markers of manhood or curated interests, but in the quiet confidence of showing up as exactly who you are, with all your complexity, vulnerability and strength. In being grounded enough to let others shine. In having nothing to prove and nowhere to get to except more fully into yourself.
This is the masculinity I’m still discovering, still integrating and still learning to inhabit more completely. And I suspect I will be for the rest of my life, which somehow feels completely right.