Power to is much better than power over.

But most men don't know the difference. And that confusion is creating a painful double bind.

Our relationship to power depends on whether we're wielding it or experiencing it. For men, power can feel like both a birthright and a trap. Society tells us to be powerful, to take charge, to be in control. But the same society condemns us when we use that power in ways that feel controlling, dominating, or oppressive.

So we try to do the right thing. We rein it in. We make ourselves smaller. We go along to get along. We downplay our opinions, soften our presence, apologize for taking up space. We try to be less intimidating, less domineering, less of what we're afraid others see when they see a man with power.

We trade one problem for another—from potentially abusing power to abandoning it altogether.

The question haunts us: How can I be strong without alienating the people I care about?

The balance feels elusive, and the fear of getting it wrong keeps us playing small.

We've all been there. You screwed up, you knew it, and you felt terrible about it.

The mistake itself is painful enough. You're already replaying it in your mind, beating yourself up, feeling the weight of disappointment and shame. You don't need anyone to tell you that you messed up—you're acutely aware.

And then someone calls you out. Having our worst moment highlighted and used against us. Being defined by our failure rather than given space to grow from it.

It's easy to blame your dad.

Once men start to reflect on who they've become, it's almost impossible not to reflect on their primary role model.

The awareness hits like a freight train. You're in your thirties, forties, or fifties, and suddenly you're connecting the dots between your dad's emotional distance and your own struggles with intimacy.

Once you see the impact of the person who raised you, it's hard to unsee it.

And once you see it, it's even harder not to be angry about it. Why didn't he know better? Why didn't he do better? Why did he pass on these limiting beliefs about what it means to be a man? The cycle is repeating, and it feels like his fault.

Let's be honest: You're no picnic.

Neither am I. Neither is anyone.

But here's the thing—we never see it that way, do we? We are the protagonist doing our best in a world full of difficult people who just don't understand us.

And from your point of view? You're absolutely right.

And yet.

You've built an impressive life. From the outside, everything looks successful. You have the career, the family, the life that everyone said you should want. People see you as someone who has it all together.

But inside? You're exhausted from performing.

Every morning, you put on the mask.

You're stuck in a loop. No matter what you do, it never seems to be quite enough.

• Your partner says the relationship feels disconnected, so you book a nicer vacation and work harder to provide. But the disconnection remains.

• Your project at work isn't quite perfect, so you stay late, pull weekends, optimize every detail. But the satisfaction doesn't come.

• You're feeling alone and overwhelmed, so you scroll more, drink more, party harder—anything to escape the feeling. But the emptiness persists.

You're doing more. Adding more effort, more hours, more intensity, more stuff. And yet the problems aren't solving. If anything, they're getting worse.

The frustrating part? Everyone around you seems to validate this approach. Work harder. Try more. Add more. Maximal effort. More input equals better output. More must equal better.

This is what success looks like, isn't it?

But what if the problem isn't that you're not doing enough? What if the problem is that you're doing too much?

You've noticed things aren't working anymore.

The strategies that got you through life - pushing forward, staying busy, keeping emotions at bay - have stopped being effective. Relationships feel strained. Your partner says you're "emotionally unavailable." Your kids seem distant. Work success isn't bringing the satisfaction it once did. You're questioning yourself in ways you never have before.

Maybe you've had a significant life event - a divorce, a career setback, a health scare - that's forced you to pause.

You look around and wonder: "Is this it? Is this all there is?"

Here's something that will blow your mind:

"Crazy Train" is a disco song. 🎶

That's right, the most recognizable heavy metal anthem—Ozzy Osbourne's headbanging classic—has a distinctly disco rhythm section, according to the hosts of the One Song podcast. And if you've seen the live version of ABBA's "Mamma Mia", they reference the Crazy Train guitar riff in their own disco-heavy performance.

It reminds me that how we see the world is often not the same as the world itself.

While women have been gathering, men have been scrolling. Blame the pandemic or social media, but men have gotten used to the frictionless way that their phone allows them to interact with the world. And it's costing them.

Here's what they don't tell you about perfection:

It's not actually about achieving excellence.

It's about avoiding the anxiety of being human, and the exhausting performance that comes with it.

Society trains us to see backward movement as failure. In business, declining numbers mean you're losing. In fitness, moving less weight than last week means you're getting weaker. In school, failing to advance to the next grade means you're not smart enough.

But healing operates by different rules.

Sometimes the most profound growth happens when you consciously choose to step back and regroup instead of pushing forward for the sake of progress.

Here's what they don't tell you about vulnerability:

It's not actually about being vulnerable.

It's about finding someone who won't turn your openness into a weapon.

Picture the most isolated professional you've ever met. Someone carrying the weight of their clients' stories, processing trauma day after day, making life-altering decisions in therapy sessions. Every challenge feels insurmountable. Every setback feels personal. Every difficult case becomes a referendum on their competence.

This is what happens when mental health professionals try to do this work in isolation.

It doesn't have to be this way.

We think we know about fear responses. We've heard the stories. Fight or flight. The adrenaline surge. The quick decision between confronting danger or running from it.

But there's something else. Something older. Something that happens when fighting won't work and fleeing isn't possible.

Shutdown.

Picture the most organized office you've ever seen. Every document has its place. Every memory, every experience, every moment gets sorted, classified, and filed away properly. The drawer slides open when you need something, you retrieve what you're looking for, and then it closes with a satisfying click.

This is how our minds are supposed to work. Experience something, process it, understand it, file it away. Next.

But what happens when the system breaks down?

Think about the last time you took a real road trip. Not a commute, but an actual journey with people you care about. Remember how different it felt when you hit construction, got stuck in traffic, or took a wrong turn?

Instead of rage and frustration, there was conversation. Instead of isolation, there was connection. The same obstacles that would ruin a commute became part of the story, part of the adventure.

Pain works the same way.

It's never just one thing.

We tell ourselves stories about single moments, isolated incidents, the one bad thing that happened. But trauma doesn't work that way. It cascades.

We think we're having the same conversation.

We're not.

You're speaking rapport. They're speaking report. Or maybe it's the other way around. Either way, you're both frustrated, both convinced the other person isn't listening, both certain you're right.

An RCMP member stood up and described a line of duty shooting. Not the moment of violence itself, but what came after. The silence from leadership. The bureaucratic shuffle. The people in the "white shirts" who suddenly became strangers when support was needed most.

Their words were simple but devastating: the lack of support was more damaging than the shooting itself.

This is moral injury. And it's time we understood what it's really costing

Pop culture has a way of holding up a mirror to society, reflecting back truths we'd rather not face. This week, it's Sabrina Carpenter doing the reflecting with her summer anthem about men's incompetence. The song is brutal in its honesty:

"Never heard of self care / Half your brain isn't there."

Ouch.