The Graveyard of Toxic Masculinity and the Birth of a New Manhood

When I was a child, I heard this sentence countless times. Not only from others, but from my own father. If I fell off my bike, scraped my knee, and tears welled up in my eyes, the response was simple: “Don’t cry! Be a man!” Back then I didn’t understand why it was wrong to hurt. Why it was wrong to say it out loud. Why it was wrong to show it. All I felt was the shame, the contempt, and his angry gaze. And with it, an unspoken message: manhood was not about who I was, but about what I was not allowed to show.

As a boy I learned very quickly that there were feelings I wasn’t supposed to show. Fear, weakness, pain — forbidden zones. Not because they didn’t exist, but because no one wanted to see them. And the worst part: after a while, I didn’t want to see them in myself either.

I’m not alone in this. We all knew that kid in school who never talked about his parents’ divorce, he just started drinking and fighting. Or the one who spent hours playing football because studying “wasn’t manly.” Or the one who put down the pencil because drawing was “gay.” They all sacrificed a part of themselves to fit the image that others called manhood.

I too often pretended to be stronger than I was. That I didn’t care, didn’t hurt, didn’t mind. And meanwhile, I started to rot inside. This is the most dangerous part of toxic masculinity: it doesn’t just put on a mask outwardly, it slowly eats you from the inside.

This story is not just about me. It’s the story of millions. Every boy whose feelings were laughed at or silenced. Every man who was never allowed to be weak. Every family that suffered behind the walls of silence until they finally lost themselves.

The roots of toxic masculinity: where does this poisonous legacy come from?

The goal is not to demonize manhood. Being a man is not bad or wrong. And it doesn’t mean that every man is aggressive or dominant. The problem is that society built a narrow, cruel mold of what it means to “be a man” — and that mold is toxic to everyone.

Where does this mold come from? We need to look back into history. For centuries, survival depended on physical strength: men hunted, fought, protected. Emotional vulnerability back then could mean real danger. But when we no longer fight our battles with swords, that practical necessity turned into a cultural dogma. The myth of “toughness” stuck — and only grew stronger.

Industrialization reinforced it: men worked in factories, did hard labor, and at home were expected to enjoy their “well-earned” rest. Emotions became a luxury. The wars of the 20th century added a new layer: generations grew up with traumatized fathers who never spoke about it. The principle “men don’t complain” was passed on like an heirloom.

Today, in the 21st century, when physical strength no longer determines everything, we are still battling these patterns — and modern life adds even more pressures on men’s shoulders.

The modern man’s trap: new era, old expectations

Today’s man is expected to meet both traditional and modern standards at the same time: be tough but sensitive; successful but present at home; dominant but respectful. This paradox creates enormous stress. If you’re sensitive, you’re seen as weak. If you’re tough, you’re cold. If you’re successful, you’re arrogant; if you’re not successful, you’re a loser.

The internet only makes it worse: many young men find “answers” in communities where toxic masculinity comes back with a vengeance — the manosphere, incel culture, PUA movements. But these places don’t heal; they only deepen the wounds.

The numbers don’t lie — the dark side of toxic masculinity

The consequences are brutally measurable:

Mental health: Men’s suicide rates are significantly higher; they seek professional help less often; they face higher risks of addiction.

Relationships: Most divorces are initiated by women — often due to emotional distance. Men maintain fewer close friendships.

Violence: Problem-solving often turns aggressive, leading to domestic violence in many cases.

Health: Men have shorter lifespans, go to the doctor less, face higher risks of heart disease.

These are not genetic destinies. They are the results of a social system that expects men to sacrifice their health and happiness for a false ideal.

The unwritten rulebook of toxic masculinity

Here are the unspoken “rules” that keep this system alive:

1. Denying pain — “Men don’t hurt.”
2. No asking for help — “A man solves his own problems.”
3. Limited emotional expression — “A man is only allowed to be angry.”
4. Forced competition — “A man must always win.”
5. Pressure of sexual performance — “A man’s worth is his sexual success.”
6. Emotional distance — “A man doesn’t depend on others.”

These rules pass from fathers to sons, friends to friends, and through the media. They are rewarded, reinforced, and no one asks: are we happy like this?

Hollywood and the ideal that never existed

For decades, movies showed us a narrow male ideal: strong, emotionally distant heroes who solved problems with force. Schwarzenegger, Stallone, Willis — their characters were machine-like, decisive, larger-than-life — but rarely emotional.

This fictional model became a real-life role model for millions, creating a chasm between expectations and reality. You can’t be Rambo in an open-space office — and if you try, frustration, shame, and overcompensation follow.

Winds of change: Pedro Pascal and Jonathan Bailey

Thankfully, change is happening. More and more male characters — and real men — are showing feelings, making mistakes, asking for help, and building deep connections. These examples don’t weaken manhood — they redefine it.

Pedro Pascal and Vanessa Kirby’s press tour for Fantastic Four: First Steps was one of those moments impossible to ignore. Pascal didn’t behave like the classic male superstar who wants to dominate his female co-star. He didn’t silence her, didn’t “steal the show” — instead, he constantly gave space to Kirby. His gestures, looks, and body language all said: “You are my equal, you don’t have to make yourself smaller beside me.” At times, he even took on a vulnerable role, seeking contact, reassurance, safety. His masculinity wasn’t about domination, but about lifting up and opening up. That’s what made him so powerful as a new kind of male role model.

Pascal’s roles and interviews show that you can be both tough and human. Joel in The Last of Us is a survivor, but his pain and love make him human — not weak.

The same shift was visible when Jonathan Bailey and Scarlett Johansson shared a playful kiss on the red carpet. In old Hollywood this would have been sold either as scandal or conquest: “the man got the woman.” But Bailey stood there in a completely different context: as an openly gay man, he didn’t kiss out of possession but out of playfulness, respect, and affection. Johansson wasn’t an object beside him — she was his equal. The world saw two stars simply enjoy each other’s presence — and there was nothing shameful about it.

Bailey takes a different path than Pascal: he’s openly gay, an emotional romantic hero in Bridgerton, showing that vulnerability and openness are attractive, not weakness. These examples prove the audience is hungry for authentic, vulnerable men.

The Hungarian reality: resistance and change

Unfortunately, in Hungary (and not only here) resistance against these changes is still strong. Many men watch these shifts from the sidelines, beer in hand, mocking or belittling new male ideals:

“Soft.” “Gay.” “Creep.” “Loser.” “Soyboy.” “Beta male.”

This is classic sour grapes: it’s easier to look down on someone brave enough to live authentically than to face what you’ve lost within your own limits.

Some public figures in Hungary even actively reinforce these harmful patterns. One well-known “influencer” recently said that women must wear bras, Hungarian women choose the most low-quality men, feminism ruins society, and “liberal” men are weak and useless.

This isn’t just insulting — it’s telling. Because such men don’t understand what it truly means to be a man. Manhood isn’t about domination, but respect. Not about shaming, but about love. Not about belittling others, but about developing yourself. Statements like these often hide deep insecurity and vulnerability. Men so afraid of not living up to traditional expectations that they attack others who dare to live differently.

Fortunately, there are positive examples in Hungarian public life as well: actors unafraid to show emotions, athletes speaking about the importance of mental health, writers openly exploring the dilemmas of manhood. These men show it can be different. You can be strong without trampling others. You can be a man without abandoning your humanity.

The price of toxic masculinity in families

One of the most tragic consequences lies between fathers and sons: the lack of emotional inheritance. A father who never learned to express his feelings cannot pass that ability on to his son. The result is an emotional void.

In relationships, emotional shutdown leads to lack of intimacy, poor communication, and conflict. Women are often pushed away by men’s absence of emotional presence.

Children — both boys and girls — get hurt. Boys learn that distance is masculine. Girls often look for partners who mirror their father’s model — repeating the same mistakes.

Global perspectives: how others fight back

In Nordic countries, paternity leave, emotional openness, and mental health awareness are becoming norms — and men are happier and healthier because of it. In Japan, the “ikumen” movement celebrates active fatherhood; in the UK, campaigns like Movember and celebrities speaking openly about men’s struggles have brought change. These aren’t utopias, but they prove that change is possible — and measurable.

Toxic masculinity isn’t natural. It’s a social construction — and like any construction, it can be changed. Step one: awareness. Step two: small, consistent choices. Step three: community.

Reimagining manhood

Now imagine men in a world where they don’t have to hide their tears. Where toughness isn’t an act. Where masculinity isn’t a weapon but a gift — including our own emotions.

If I saw that little boy today, crying beside his bike with a scraped knee, I wouldn’t tell him, “Be a man.” I’d tell him: “You can cry. You have the right to. And when you’re ready, I’ll help you stand up.”

Because being a man doesn’t mean hiding who I am. It means owning my feelings — and moving forward anyway. That’s what I’m learning now. And if we men start learning this, we won’t just survive anymore — we’ll finally live.

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