Prelude to Man, But Not
Of Man and Woman
I refuse to be the father, uncle, or friend who stands back, watching those I care for stifled, their growth held hostage by expectations that suppress instead of uplift. I won’t be the person who holds anyone back from blooming before they even get the chance. I take pride in not fitting the mould of what society calls a “man”—stoic, guarded, asserting control rather than understanding, hiding behind toughness, and treating vulnerability as a flaw. Instead, I’m grateful to embody what some label as “feminine” qualities—empathy, openness, and an emotional depth that lets me truly connect, understand, and heal. These aren’t weaknesses; they’re my strengths.
I will never be the kind of person who stops someone from crying when they need to. Crying is part of being alive; it’s real, it’s healthy. Men can and should cry. This is called living and having a heart.
If that makes me “feminine”, I’ll wear that label proudly.
Too often, strength is depicted as a fortress, a hardened mask that hides tenderness. But if “being strong” means burying one’s true self, silencing the voice of the inner child, and forgetting what it means to need, to want, and to care, then I am relieved not to embody that version of masculinity. I am proudly sensitive. Some may see this as delicate, but I recognize it as a gift—to express my emotions openly, to acknowledge them instead of burying them beneath layers of pretence.
I have an intuitive power—both a gift and a curse. I feel the pain of those I care about, even if they’re “light years” away, even when they say nothing at all. Somehow, I know. So, I reach out, offering a gentle reminder: “I’m here”. It’s up to them to take it or leave it, but they will always know they’re not alone.
I feel honoured when people come to me without hesitation, sharing their troubles, their innermost thoughts and fears, knowing I will listen without judgment. It’s a privilege to be that person for others. Perhaps I have my past to thank for it—those early, not-so-pleasant years shaped me into someone who can hold space for others, without criticism or expectation. When people trust me with their stories, they know those stories won’t be passed on; they’re not mine to share. That’s trust—something rare, and I’m grateful to have earned it. I feel like I’ve won a quiet prize each time someone says,
“Can I talk to you?” or “I need you”.
When I say, “I’m here for you” or “Reach out whenever you need me”, it’s not just to fill the silence. I mean it, deeply and genuinely. Those words are a promise, not a placeholder. If someone chooses to reach out, I’ll be there—fully, without reservation. And if they don’t, that’s okay too. The offer is real, whether it’s taken or left.
Yet, I won’t pretend it’s easy. I struggle, too, when those I care about disappear. It hurts—more deeply than I often let on. I will acknowledge that I am in pain, that my heart feels the weight of their absence, and that’s part of my truth.
Society may say it’s weakness for a “man” to show emotion so freely, but I know better. My strength lies in being able to connect without fear, to seek closeness without judgment, and to desire companionship that builds rather than constrains. Sensitivity and empathy aren’t signs of fragility. True courage lies in living with an open heart.
I fear physical pain, and I’m not comfortable with violence; my tolerance for it isn’t what it used to be. Call me a wimp if you like—I don’t mind; you’re entitled to your opinion. But I know very few who could endure the emotional storms I’ve weathered. Life has dealt its share of physical blows, yet it’s the unseen battles that truly test one’s resilience—wounds that leave no visible scars but cut far deeper than any bruise.
Yes, I am a man, but not.
To those who see emotions as a flaw or sensitivity as weakness, I would say this: perhaps you have yet to discover the beauty of true empathy, the quiet power in showing up for others—even those who have pushed you away. To care deeply, to forgive freely, to stay present—these are not signs of fragility but of immense strength. A person’s essence isn’t bound by their body or confined by the label of gender.
Having and expressing emotions doesn’t make you any less of a man.
Toxic masculinity? I won’t embody that. I’ve endured enough of it in my life and have no intention of replicating it.
I am grateful to possess this heart—both fierce and gentle, unafraid to feel deeply. And in that gratitude, I honour the beauty of women, who embody strength, resilience, and compassion in every facet of life. If I’m seen as “feminine” in any way, I consider it an honour, for it aligns me with those who hold the world together through grace, intuition, and love. Embracing these qualities, I feel I am, finally, fully myself.
I will not shut off my emotions. And I’m not asking anyone to understand them. I’ll keep working on myself, exploring the layers of feeling within me, knowing there’s more than even I can fully grasp. Maybe none of us live long enough to understand everything.
I will laugh with you, I will cry with you, and I will hold you close.
But, yes, Yes, I am a man,
but not.
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Words of the Reader
“The patriarchy has been just as destructive for men as it has for women and non-binary people. I love your leadership here in embodying a return to wholeness. Redefining what being a man means to you. And it’s the kind of man the world so needs.
Thank you, thank you, thank you for being who you are and sharing your stories ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️”
“Awhhh thank you for this Avik! I have been having very similar feelings with how the world views me in this regard. I don’t see myeelf as a “man” I have a male body sure, but my emotions are always very emotional, veey “feminine” and it has taken me a long time to release that this is a normal feeling. I’m so glad that someone else understands the powers of speaking with your mind and heart! I appreciate this so much!🥰🥰”
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