I know good men.
Men who sit through discomfort,
who don’t need applause for doing the right thing.
Men who show up — fully, quietly —
because they believe in shared humanity, not performance.
I’ve seen what it looks like when a man listens with his whole presence.
I’ve felt the steadiness of being heard without interruption,
understood without being translated.
And still — even with some of these progressive types —
there’s a wall.
Not one built with bad intentions.
But with old habits.
With self-protection.
With unspoken expectations.
It shows up subtly:
a deflection when the conversation shifts to uncomfortable truths,
a correction or explanation that shifts focus back to his experience,
an urge to “fix” rather than simply hold space.
The way my words get weighed before they’re received,
the way my tone is measured more than my meaning.
Some progressive men may say they support equality,
but sometimes fall into the trap of expecting “curated” communication —
silencing anger, skepticism, or rawness because it feels “too much.”
They lean in when the message is polished,
but retreat when it’s messy or complicated.
I’ve watched them nod in meetings,
then hesitate to call out a wrongdoing,
or stand aside when women are interrupted or ignored.
They champion diversity —
but sometimes forget to challenge the systems they benefit from.
And here’s something else I’ve witnessed:
Men tend to listen more
when a woman looks a certain way.
When her voice is sweet.
When her body is pleasing.
When her demeanour and opinion soften into a smile.
I’ve watched men lean in, nod along —
not because the woman was more insightful,
but because she was more “palatable”.
And I’ve seen others — brilliant, brave, messy in all the right ways —
go unheard.
Not because they lacked wisdom,
but because they weren’t curated for the male gaze.
We shouldn’t have to perform beauty or restraint
to be taken seriously.
And I get it, I’ve fallen in this trap myself.
Considering my hair, my make-up, my smile, my clothes…
As I know I will be listened to.
And I want so much for this to change.
Not only for me but for my daughter as well.
For all of us.
At work, support isn’t about being “open-minded” —
it’s about stepping aside so others can lead.
It’s amplifying women’s voices.
It’s noticing who gets interrupted and who gets the final say.
It’s using your position to shift the dynamic — not just reflect it.
In friendship, support isn’t saying “I’m here for you”
when things are light, fun, or flattering.
It’s staying when things get honest.
When we’re not polished or self-contained.
When we simply tumble up.
When we ask questions without expecting quick answers.
And in love —
it’s not enough to admire a woman’s strength
if her vulnerability makes you withdraw,
or her leadership makes you take a step back.
Real partnership means co-creating a space where emotions can exist
without becoming threats.
Where the labor of connection is shared.
Where we’re not expected to tone ourselves down
to keep the other person comfortable.
To be an ally isn’t to be perfect.
It’s to be present.
To reflect.
To ask:
Am I truly listening?
Or just waiting to speak?
Do I support her,
or do I admire her when it serves me, it pleases me?
And to women —
we don’t need to carry the weight of re-educating everyone.
We don’t need to dress our truth in softness to be heard.
We can be clear.
We can take up space.
We can stop trying to be easy to digest.
We can hold the mirror —
but the work of change isn’t just ours to do.
The wall won’t fall with one conversation.
But it can crack.
With self-awareness.
With repetition.
With presence.
With men who don’t just believe in equality —
*embody* it
in the way they speak,
listen, and show up.
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