Good Will Hunting for Intimacy
What happens when you finally stop pedestalizing women… and start getting pedestalized yourself? This one’s about projection and learning to guard your weird little world without closing it off.
As I was working on an essay last night about pedestalization and projection, I finally watched Good Will Hunting from beginning to end — I know, I know. I’d seen clips and quotes but never the whole thing. It’s every bit as good as people say.
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.