There’s a quiet storm inside me, a blend of clarity and chaos, certainty and doubt. Some days, it pulls me under; others leave me gasping for breath. I drift through its currents, torn between the self I’ve worn like a borrowed coat and the truths rising like bruises beneath the surface. Who am I? The question hums in my bones relentlessly. Each morning, I wake to the weight of it, the battle already raging before my feet hit the floor.

The ghost is always there, breathing down my neck, its voice slick with inherited shame: “Are you sure?” and “Who do you think you’re fooling?” I want to scream that I’m not sure, that certainty collapsed the moment I clawed through the facade. Now, the rubble of old lies cuts at my hands: Be solid. Be simple. Be what they need. But the boy inside me won’t stay buried. He tugs at my ribs, small and fierce, whispering, “See me. Love me. Let me breathe.”

I’m so tired. Tired of folding myself into compartments, husband, father, protector, while the storm shreds the edges. I’m weary of shoving the mess back into drawers before anyone notices. But the harder I push, the louder it all becomes: the boy’s voice, the ghost’s taunts, the thunder of what if?

Here’s the cruellest truth: I miss the luxury of ignorance. Back then, I could have mistaken numbness for peace. I could have pretended that the storm didn’t exist, that the boy inside me was just a fleeting memory. Now, every denial feels like a betrayal of him, me, and the raw, unanswerable truth that I am becoming.

The storm won’t calm. Not yet. But sometimes, I open my eyes in the morning and catch a glimpse of a man I want to become. I feel like I’m kneeling in a wreckage, surrounded by the debris of my past self, gathering scattered pieces, not to fix them, but to hold them. Showing myself, “You’re allowed.”

I once thought being a man meant prioritising everyone else’s needs over mine. It involved wearing a mask. Some days, I perform it perfectly, deep voice, ruthlessness, jokes that taste like rust and locking away my emotions. Masculinity felt like a fortress, unyielding and impenetrable. It was like climbing a ladder. The first rung: don’t cry. The second: provide. The third: suppress emotions. However, as I climbed higher, the air grew thinner. Now, I am gasping, realising there is no top to this ladder, just the lie that I’ll ever be “enough.”

I’m tired of holding my fucking breath.

The truth is that masculinity isn’t a ladder; it’s a cage. It isn’t a single, uniform concept but a narrative that humans have expressed in countless ways throughout history. Biologically, it is associated with male bodies, but culturally, it has been confined to certain stereotypes such as the provider, the warrior, and the stoic figure. In reality, masculinity exists on a spectrum that includes a range of expressions: strength and tenderness, authority and vulnerability, roughness and grace.

The issue isn’t masculinity itself; it’s the rigid scripts that punish men for stepping outside of them. A “man” is anyone who identifies with the term, full stop. For some, it’s a combination of anatomy and social conditioning; for others, it’s a deeply felt identity (trans men demonstrate that it’s not solely about biology). At its core, masculinity is a role, a performance, and sometimes a prison, depending on who holds the keys.

In the UK, masculinity resembles a haunted castle, with bricks crumbling under the weight of the Empire’s ghosts and the decay of nostalgia. We are taught to swallow our grief like bad whiskey, to measure manhood by stoicism and swagger, and to cling to the myth of the bulldog spirit, even as the world laughs at our delusions.

This is an island where masculinity dominates the narrative. The NHS allows men to languish on 18-month waiting lists for mental health care, encouraging them to “man up and suffer quietly,” while MPs preach about “family values” even as they undermine abortion rights. Masculinity reeks of Carling beer and defeat in the working men’s clubs. Young men on estates are told to be “hard,” but the challenging jobs have vanished along with the mines. Being “hard” means punching walls rather than fighting for worker rights. Love Island portrays six-pack abs and emotional detachment as the ultimate indicators of manhood, providing a glossy checklist for Gen Z: physical fitness, witty banter, and never showing tears.

British masculinity is a betrayal. It suggests that a working-class boy’s value lies in his physical strength, not in his emotions. The immigrant father works 60 hours a week to demonstrate that he is “one of the good ones.” Meanwhile, the queer man seeks to carve out a place for themselves in a culture that still quietly condemns their identity as a sin.

Here’s my rebellion

I let my hands move gently now, palms open, fingers uncurling, no longer fists disguised as tools. Tenderness isn’t a compromise; it’s a reclaiming of my true self. Some days, I’m all rough edges, my voice a growl shaped by years of “manning up.” Other days, I’m a quiet hum, folding laundry with the same care I once reserved for rescuing others from flames. The whiplash terrifies me. Can a man be both storm and shelter?

I sit cross-legged on the floor as my son paints my nails, his small hands steady while mine tremble. He chooses a sequined dress for himself, twirling until the fabric glitters like shattered glass. My father’s voice echoes in my mind: “You’re making him soft.” But softness isn’t weakness; it’s resilience. I push back the shame, kiss my son’s forehead, and say, “You look beautiful.”

When my daughter whispers about her nightmares, I don’t pretend to be brave. “Daddy gets scared too,” I admit, tracing her tiny knuckles. Her eyes widen—not at my fear, but at the realisation that monsters don’t disappear when you grow up. Together, we face them, her small hand gripping mine.

At night, I press my face into my wife’s neck and let her hold me. Her arms don’t judge me for trembling or worry about whether it’s “manly.” They only understand the truth: desire needs no permission. I breathe in her scent and, for once, I don’t analyse whether my need for her makes me less of a protector. It simply makes me human.

The pit village in me is crumbling. Generations of “hard men” echo in my marrow, men who swallowed grief like coal dust, who measured worth in calluses and silent endurance. But I’m dynamiting their legacy. My masculinity now is a patchwork of contradictions: firefighter and nurturer, miners son and queer heart, stoic and too fucking emotional. I apologise first. I cry when I need to, carry my son’s pink backpack to school and ignore the stares. 

That working-class ghost still rattles his chains: “You’re betraying the blood.” But I’m learning to answer back: No—I’m redeeming it. Pride isn’t in how much pain I can endure, but in how gently I can unlearn it. Let the UK cling to its Carling-soaked delusions of manhood. Mine is a quieter revolution: raising children who’ll never have to claw their way out of the cage I’m dismantling, brick by brick, with these trembling, tender hands.