For reasons I won’t expound on, I found myself deeply moved and connected to both Will and Sean.

There’s the scene where Sean is talking to Will about why he hasn’t called Skylar. Sean says, “You’re not perfect, sport, and let me save you the suspense: this girl you’ve met, she’s not perfect either. But the question is whether or not you’re perfect for each other.”

And it got me thinking about why I was writing this essay on projection and my experience with being put on a pedestal.

Who is it for? What’s it supposed to accomplish?

A few weeks ago, I posted a public apology on Facebook—to every woman I ever put on a pedestal. It wasn’t about guilt. It was about owning the impact of my Nice Guy conditioning. I grew up putting women on pedestals—believing love had to be earned, that expressing what I wanted was selfish or shameful. So I stayed silent. I played the role. While deep down, I was angry and resentful that my needs went unmet while I kept pretending I didn’t have any.

But I’m not that man anymore.

I’ve been rebuilding from the inside out. I stopped chasing validation and started living with vision. I got in shape—physically, emotionally, mentally, financially, and spiritually. I take care of my body, dress like I give a damn, and carry myself with intention. I’ve created and continue to create a life that reflects my values—built on legacy, purpose, and discipline. I know who I am now. I know what I bring. I no longer shrink myself to fit into someone else’s fantasy.

What’s been happening lately, however, has been a little surprising.

Without going into all the different instances (some more intense than others), I finally know what it feels like to be on the receiving end of projection. To be idealized and not seen. To have someone fall in love with a fantasy they made up in their head—and expect me to play along like I got the script.

It’s lonely as hell. Isolating. Dehumanizing, even.

There’s this invisible pressure that comes with being put on a pedestal—the pressure to perform, to live up to a version of yourself you never agreed to be. And when you can’t—or won’t—the pedestal becomes a prison.

That realization hit me hard. I finally got what it feels like to be consumed without consent. To become an idea—someone’s symbol for hope, healing, or redemption—until the illusion cracks. Then they move on to find a new ideal.

It’s painful and, honestly, infuriating — to be looked at, admired, or fantasized about without actually being seen.

And that’s where Sean’s other quote really landed for me: “We get to choose who we let into our weird little worlds.”

Because that’s the part that stings and liberates all at once. The recognition that, yes, people will project. They’ll build their stories around the pieces of you they find interesting or useful.

But we still get to choose who has real access.

But with access comes risk. That’s part of the fear too, right? What if we let someone into our weird little world — allow ourselves to truly be seen — and they run off to chase a new fantasy?

What if I share too much from my inner world and ruin the “tall, dark, and handsome” illusion? The dashing, debonair, Black-James-Bond-slash-Idris-Elba energy that many women find desirable and some dudes find enviable?

Or what if I let a woman in and she realizes I’m more emotionally grounded and self-aware than she is — that I can’t be manipulated by sex or performative vulnerability? That I’ll actually hold her accountable for how she behaves, and now she sees she can’t reach the standard I’ve set?

That’s the thing about projections: they keep everyone safe from the truth. It’s easier to fall in love with a fantasy than to sit across from a person who might challenge you to grow—or fart in their sleep.

And maybe this is why I hesitated to publish the original essay.

Because I realized putting it out there might recreate the very dynamic I’m writing about — people consuming my vulnerability as if it were a product, turning my truth into another form of projection.

So instead of publishing, I’m practicing something else: discernment.

We don’t get to control whether people project onto us — that’s their work, not ours.

But we do get to choose who we let into our weird little worlds.

Who earns the right to see the unedited version of us—the director’s cut and behind-the-scenes.

Real intimacy looks like this: into-me-you-see.

It’s two people finding the courage to keep looking at other and themselves honestly long after the fantasy has faded away.

It’s bad math.

You’re forgetting all the ways a good woman adds to your life… and how she multiplies your blessings.

Now, this mindset isn’t necessarily your fault.

We’ve all been brainwashed to measure a person's value by their productivity and what they do for work.

Ever notice how one of the first questions we ask when meeting someone is:
“What do you do?”
Not: “Who are you?”

(Even though that question tends to send people into an existential panic — but that’s a conversation for another day.)

The bottom line is: this is patriarchy at work.
And yeah — it hurts women and men.

Now, back to my original point.

Think of a good woman — or the relationship — like a high-yield investment.
(Not to objectify — but sometimes a metaphor helps.)

If you think of her like an investment, her value compounds over time.
But the return?

It only comes if you consistently invest.

Now I know some of y’all say:

“I’ll invest once I know she’s the one.”

But that’s like trying to time the market or predict which stock is gonna take off.

Unless it’s transactional, relationships don’t work like that —
especially if you want a relationship that honors God.

You want her in your corner during the tough times?

You want a partner who holds down the home, the kids — and you?

Then you have to demonstrate your ability to make her feel seen, protected, and prioritized —
not just when it’s convenient or affordable.

Paying for dates.
Providing financially.
Creating emotional safety.

That’s all bare minimum investment.

And if you don’t have the money to invest right now, that’s OK.
But you’ve got to be real with yourself about where you are — and be working on a plan to level up.

Because while, yes, some women want you to have it right now —
there are plenty who just want to see that you’ve got a vision, and you’re moving toward it.

Those are the women to focus on.
The ones who’ll speak life into you as you build — not tear you down while you’re trying.

But again — if you’re not in a place to provide anything financially yet, then be upfront.

Even if it stings.
Even if it bruises your ego.

Because — despite what the internet keeps yelling —
your financial status is not a reflection of your worth as a man.

No matter how many times that idiotic phrase “high-value man” gets thrown around.

It’s not a reflection of your value.
But it might reflect your level of compatibility with someone right now.

So be honest. Be clear. And give her the choice.

Because it’s unfair to let a woman get emotionally invested in a future with you
when you know you’re not ready or able to provide a foundation for that future.

And truthfully? It’s not just unfair to her — it’s unfair to you, too.

Because when you force yourself into a dynamic you’re not ready for — financially, emotionally, spiritually — you’re setting yourself up for resentment, burnout, and disconnection.

You deserve a relationship rooted in grace, ease, and peace.
One where you’re not just providing, but also receiving — support, understanding, and space to grow.

And she can’t give you that if she’s constantly worried you’re going to fall apart or fail because you overextended yourself.

Don’t rob her or yourself of that just to soothe your own fear of rejection or not being enough.

Love demands courage.

And courage is not a 50/50 game.

It’s disorienting to do real emotional work while the culture—and your algorithm—rewards finger-pointing over presence, and blame over self-reflection.

I see it every day—outrage content goes viral, while the posts inviting personal accountability barely make a ripple.

We say we want connection. But we keep feeding the divide.

We confuse polarization for polarity—and then wonder why nothing sticks.

Polarity, as I understand it, isn’t about dominance or control—it’s about tension, truth, and trust.

In frameworks like GS Youngblood’s The Masculine in Relationship, polarity stems from presence, leadership, and emotional depth.

It’s the energetic current that moves between a grounded masculine and a receptive feminine—regardless of gender.

I’m not interested in performative masculinity or femininity like it’s a costume from Spirit Halloween. If it’s not embodied, it’s not polarity.

Real polarity requires emotional maturity, nervous system regulation, and a commitment to mutual growth.

But what gets rewarded online isn’t maturity—it’s mockery. Outrage. Gender tropes dressed up as wisdom.

And a severe lack of empathy.

That’s not creating connection. It’s killing it.

And I’ve witnessed that death more times than I care to admit.

I’ve written before about why some women don’t see coffee dates as “real” dates—and spoiler: it’s rarely about the money.

It’s about energy. Intention. The way the time together feels like an interview, not an invitation.

When she’s being evaluated instead of valued, she doesn’t feel chosen—she feels inspected.

In my last post, "Why It's Up to Men to Save Modern Dating", I wrote about how too many men aren’t dating to love—they’re dating to win.

They treat the feminine like the enemy—or like their mother. Sometimes they can’t tell the difference.

I write about the importance of men dropping the mask. Reconnecting with the boy inside who didn’t get what he needed. And living from a code that keeps them from collapsing into chaos.

I practice what I preach: leading with clarity, initiating with intention, and offering grounded presence.

I’m often told—aside from the kindness and looks—it’s my emotional clarity that stands out. My maturity. My willingness to be honest, even when it’s hard.

I don’t do 50/50. And the only “coffee date” I’m signing up for is espresso martinis with dinner.

And let’s be clear—I’m not a simp, and I’m definitely not an incel.

I’m not here for cosplay masculinity or the watered-down “nice guy” act.

I’ve done—and continue to do—the work. That’s why I’ve earned my center.

So imagine the ache of offering that kind of presence—only to be met with silence, hesitation, or retreat.

And thanks to the low-key surveillance machine we call social media, I watch women I’ve shown up for engage with content that reduces men to punchlines—or turns dating into a hollow, dehumanizing game for engagement.

I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a little bit of resentment.

That content? Those narratives? They aren’t harmless.

They reinforce distrust. Reward avoidance. And feed the part of us that would rather guard our wounds than risk real intimacy.

Here’s the quiet kicker…

Once we start engaging with that content, our brain starts curating the world to match.

It’s called the Reticular Activating System—or RAS. It’s the part of the brain that acts like a filter, reinforcing what we already believe or pay attention to.

Engage with enough posts that say “men are trash” or “women only want attention,” and guess what? That becomes your lens.

Not because it’s the truth—but because it’s what you’ve trained your brain to care about.

We think it’s just scrolling.

But really, we’re programming our nervous systems. Reinforcing our fears.

Training ourselves to stay guarded—even when the connection we crave is standing right in front of us.

I get it.

Maybe a like is just a like. Maybe it means nothing.

(Though let’s be honest—how often does that logic hold up when a guy’s caught liking a thirst trap or an OF post?)

What we consume shapes us.

And the research backs it up: social media actively shapes how we view, pursue, and experience relationships.

Yes, it creates new ways to connect. But it also fuels comparison. Jealousy. Disconnection. Fantasy over intimacy. (Source: How Social Media Affects Relationships)

That steady drip of blame, cynicism, and gender wars doesn’t stay on our screens.

It shows up in how we date. How we listen. What we expect. And what we stop believing is possible.

Social media isn’t just a vacuum—it’s a mirror and a megaphone. It amplifies what we fear and reflects who we’re becoming.

And I say that knowing I’m not immune.

I catch myself numbing. Scrolling. Feeding my own fears. Watching what I consume—and noticing who I’m becoming because of it.

So what do we do with all this?

If we want deeper relationships, we need to make braver choices—especially in what we like, share, and silently co-sign with our attention.

Because that’s what the algorithm—and our nervous system—are always learning from.

We can’t say we want love but keep feeding what teaches us to fear it.

So ask yourself—gently, honestly—
What kind of content are you feeding your algorithm—and your soul? What might that say about the relationship you’re actually preparing for?

Let’s talk about it. Drop a comment or hit reply—I read it all.

And that direction isn’t toward control, performance, or posturing—but toward presence. Toward becoming the kind of man who doesn’t need to prove anything, because he already knows who he is.

But if we’re honest, most of us were never taught how to be that man. We were taught how to perform.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how we’re showing up in dating—not just as men trying to connect with women, but as humans trying to connect with ourselves. And the deeper I go in my conversations with friends—especially women—the more I see it clearly: we’re all hurting, we’re all guarded, and we’re all playing out roles we never consciously chose.

And it’s costing us something sacred.

This essay isn’t just about dating. It’s about identity. About emotional honesty. About the soul-level disorientation of being raised in a culture where masculinity was never modeled—only mimicked.

It’s a mirror. And if it makes you uncomfortable, don’t look away.

Sit with it.

The Masculinity Crisis Isn’t Loud. It’s Quiet and Confused.

Modern dating has become a performance. One where we’re all acting, hedging, auditioning for roles we don’t even want. Men are expected to lead but aren’t trusted. Women are expected to receive but stay guarded. Everyone is playing not to lose rather than showing up to love.

The truth is, most men are operating from a place of fear.

Fear of being used. Fear of being rejected. Fear of being seen.

We think if we stay emotionally neutral, we stay safe. But neutrality isn’t attractive. It’s not even honest. It’s just avoidance dressed in faux maturity.

What I see—and what I’ve seen in myself—is that many of our dating behaviors are rooted not in genuine curiosity or connection, but in performance, self-protection, and the pursuit of male approval.

We Don’t Want to Love. We Want to Win.

Too many men aren’t dating because they want her. They’re dating for the nod from other men.

We chase women we don’t even like because it looks good. Because someone might say “I see you, playa.” Because some insecure version of ourselves still thinks having a “bad one” on your arm makes you a man.

It’s validation by proxy.

This obsession with optics over authenticity is what turns dating into performance art—and relationships into power struggles. You’re not trying to create intimacy; you’re trying to maintain your status.

That’s not masculinity. That’s pageantry.

And it leaves everyone feeling unseen.

The Feminine is Not Your Enemy. And She’s Not Your Mother, Either.

A lot of men say they want a woman who’s their “peace.”

But peace isn’t something you outsource. It’s something you cultivate in yourself—and then invite someone into.

You can’t demand nurturing from someone you won’t be emotionally open with. You can’t ask for softness while projecting rigidity. You can’t long for intimacy while making vulnerability a crime.

And deep down, many of us have been taught to resent the feminine—not just in women, but in ourselves.

We mock tenderness. We run from surrender. We fear emotional expression unless it’s anger or ambition. And when we see a woman embodying what we were taught to suppress—receptivity, emotion, softness—we get uncomfortable. Sometimes even resentful.

Because if you were shamed for needing comfort or affection as a boy, it makes sense that you’d feel a kind of ache watching someone else receive what you were denied.

But the parts of yourself you’ve exiled—the emotional, the intuitive, the tender—are the exact parts you need to reclaim if you ever want to build a real connection with anyone.

Including yourself.

Masculinity as Nervous System Regulation

One of the biggest lies we were sold is that masculinity is about dominance or detachment.

It’s not.

Healthy, grounded masculinity is nervous system regulation. It’s the ability to be still when everything in you wants to react. It’s the strength to feel your feelings without collapsing under them or numbing them out.

It’s the clarity to stand firm in your truth without needing to control the outcome. It’s having a vision for your life—and not abandoning it for a temporary hit of validation.

It’s presence over posturing. Integrity over intensity.

And it’s the hardest damn thing in the world when no one ever modeled it for you.

The Real Rite of Passage

In my own healing journey, especially through programs like Nice Guy Reform School and the inner work I’ve done with mentors and other men, I’ve come to understand this:

Many of us never had a real initiation into manhood.

Our society no longer offers rites of passage. Religion, education, even the military—these once-structured paths toward adult identity have lost their cultural weight or become politicized.

So instead, we create shallow initiations.

We drink too much. We sleep around. We join podcast comment sections and talk shit about women online. We mimic alpha behavior while still feeling like boys inside.

But a real initiation doesn’t come from performance.

It comes from surrender.

It comes from looking in the mirror and saying: “This is who I am. This is what I believe. This is the man I am becoming.”

It comes from choosing a code to live by, and refusing to abandon it—even when it’s hard, even when it costs you something, even when no one’s watching.

That’s what makes a man.

Dating Isn’t Broken. We Are.

Dating reflects the collective emotional state of the people participating in it.

And right now? We’re in chaos.

Men are disoriented, disconnected from their emotions, and performing identities they never consciously chose. Women are amplifying that chaos—reflecting and responding to what they receive. And everyone’s tired.

We’re all craving safety, truth, and connection—but we’ve become so practiced at protecting ourselves from hurt that we’ve forgotten how to open up to love.

We’ve turned romance into strategy. Vulnerability into currency. Intimacy into war.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

So What Does It Look Like to Show Up Differently?

It starts with asking better questions.

• Am I here to connect—or to compete?

• Am I showing up as a full human—or just a curated brand of masculinity?

• Am I creating safety—or just demanding submission?

• Am I grounded in my values—or lost in someone else’s approval?

And perhaps most importantly:

• Have I made peace with the boy in me who never got what he needed?

Because until you do, you’ll keep looking for wholeness in the gaze of others.

You’ll keep asking women to mother you, rescue you, or complete you.

You’ll keep performing instead of becoming.

The Invitation

This is an invitation—not to be perfect, but to be present.

To drop the mask.
To get curious.
To define masculinity not by domination, but by direction.
To lead with clarity, not control.
To offer your presence, not your performance.

You don’t need to be six-figures, six-foot, or six-pack blessed.

You need a vision. A code. A self you can come home to.

That’s what separates men who create connection from those who collapse into chaos.

And when you become that kind of man?

Everything changes.

Not because you “get the girl.”

But because you finally got you.

Author’s Note with Book Mentions:

I didn’t write this from an ivory tower. I wrote it from the mud—after years of getting my heart broken and proverbial teeth kicked in untangling my identity from old wounds, false performances, and inherited ideas of masculinity that never fit.

My growth has come through thousands of journal entries, mirror work, breathwork, meditation, prayer, and deep conversations with other men doing the work too.

And I wouldn’t be where I am without the guidance I found in books like:

• The Masculine in Relationship and The Art of Embodiment for Men by GS Youngblood

• How to Do the Work by Dr. Nicole LePera

• The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz

• I Am Number 8 by John W. Gray III

• Hero on a Mission by Donald Miller

• Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl

These books helped me remember who I am—and gave me the language to create a new way of showing up in the world. If you’re on your own path of healing, I highly recommend them.

If this essay resonated, share it with someone walking this path.

And if you’re still figuring it out? You’re not behind. You’re not alone.

I promise it gets better.