A note before you read: this is a longer post than usual — around a 7-minute read. But it’s a topic I care deeply about, and I hope you’ll find it worth your time.
Introduction
I saw something very powerful on television last week. And I’m not talking about Inside the Manosphere – though we’ll come back to that.
Rather, it was an exchange between two men on a football discussion programme — a show normally known for sharp analysis and good-natured banter, not for emotional revelation. But then, at the beginning of the show, in front of an international audience, one of them paused to say something real to his friend and colleague. Something unexpected. Something kind.
The other man received it. He didn't deflect, didn't laugh it off; didn't reach for a joke to kill the awkwardness of the moment. He accepted it – admittedly, with no small degree of self-consciousness - but then, courageously, talked openly on international television about his struggles with depression and alcohol, and how a friend helped him reconnect with the true meaning of life beyond the glitz and glamour of being a professional footballer.
It was, without exaggeration, one of the most powerful displays of masculinity I've seen on television in recent years.
We'll come back to it, as an example of what some writers refer to as positive masculinity (Kiselica & Englar-Carson, 2010).
But first, we need to talk about the other kind.
Rather, it was an exchange between two men on a football discussion programme — a show normally known for sharp analysis and good-natured banter, not for emotional revelation. But then, at the beginning of the show, in front of an international audience, one of them paused to say something real to his friend and colleague. Something unexpected. Something kind.
The other man received it. He didn't deflect, didn't laugh it off; didn't reach for a joke to kill the awkwardness of the moment. He accepted it – admittedly, with no small degree of self-consciousness - but then, courageously, talked openly on international television about his struggles with depression and alcohol, and how a friend helped him reconnect with the true meaning of life beyond the glitz and glamour of being a professional footballer.
It was, without exaggeration, one of the most powerful displays of masculinity I've seen on television in recent years.
We'll come back to it, as an example of what some writers refer to as positive masculinity (Kiselica & Englar-Carson, 2010).
But first, we need to talk about the other kind.
Inside the Manosphere
Louis Theroux's recent Netflix documentary Inside the Manosphere shines a forensic light on a growing online ecosystem of male influencers — podcasters, streamers, self-styled "alpha males" — who have amassed millions of followers by selling a very particular vision of what it means to be a man.
It is worth taking that vision seriously. Not because it deserves respect, but because it is reaching young men — including, quite possibly, some of the young men in your life — in enormous numbers.
So what, according to these influencers, does a "real man" look like?
In short: wealthy, physically dominant, sexually prolific, misogynistic, controlling/coercive (having a penchant for “one-sided monogamy” in relationships - and you can guess on which side), and emotionally closed. As Theroux himself puts it, the whole framework is almost primally reductive — "you need to be an alpha who gets all the women and all the food." A real man wins. A real man doesn't need anyone. A real man certainly doesn't cry.
Central to this worldview is a deeply troubling idea about worth. One influencer, filmed with two of his young fans, articulates it with chilling clarity: "Life as a man — you're born without value. You have to build that value." Women, apparently, are born with worth (their beauty). Men must earn theirs — through wealth, dominance, and status — and that earning never stops. You are always one failure away from worthlessness.
Everything in this world is transactional. Relationships with women are power dynamics to be "won." Friendship between men is competition. Vulnerability is weakness. Emotion is liability. And underpinning all of it is a warrior ethos — a "ruthless, take-no-prisoners, you-against-the-world" mentality — packaged and sold as empowerment.
The irony, of course, is the contradiction at the heart of it all. These men preach self-reliance and emotional independence while their entire business model depends on their desperate need for the attention and approval of their audience. Every post, every podcast, every provocative clip is content. Every sentence is a pitch. They are not free men. They are performers, exhaustingly and permanently on stage, projecting a truly toxic version of masculinity into the world.
It is worth taking that vision seriously. Not because it deserves respect, but because it is reaching young men — including, quite possibly, some of the young men in your life — in enormous numbers.
So what, according to these influencers, does a "real man" look like?
In short: wealthy, physically dominant, sexually prolific, misogynistic, controlling/coercive (having a penchant for “one-sided monogamy” in relationships - and you can guess on which side), and emotionally closed. As Theroux himself puts it, the whole framework is almost primally reductive — "you need to be an alpha who gets all the women and all the food." A real man wins. A real man doesn't need anyone. A real man certainly doesn't cry.
Central to this worldview is a deeply troubling idea about worth. One influencer, filmed with two of his young fans, articulates it with chilling clarity: "Life as a man — you're born without value. You have to build that value." Women, apparently, are born with worth (their beauty). Men must earn theirs — through wealth, dominance, and status — and that earning never stops. You are always one failure away from worthlessness.
Everything in this world is transactional. Relationships with women are power dynamics to be "won." Friendship between men is competition. Vulnerability is weakness. Emotion is liability. And underpinning all of it is a warrior ethos — a "ruthless, take-no-prisoners, you-against-the-world" mentality — packaged and sold as empowerment.
The irony, of course, is the contradiction at the heart of it all. These men preach self-reliance and emotional independence while their entire business model depends on their desperate need for the attention and approval of their audience. Every post, every podcast, every provocative clip is content. Every sentence is a pitch. They are not free men. They are performers, exhaustingly and permanently on stage, projecting a truly toxic version of masculinity into the world.
What these men are really selling
It would be a mistake to dismiss the manosphere's appeal out of hand. Louis Theroux doesn't, and neither should we.
The uncomfortable truth is that many young men who find their way into these spaces are not looking for misogyny. They're looking for something far more basic: direction, belonging, and a sense that their struggles are real and understood.
As Theroux notes, "there are a lot of lonely men out there" — men navigating a world in which traditional markers of male identity (e.g. manufacturing work, clear social roles, uncomplicated expectations) have shifted, and where the cultural conversation about masculinity can sometimes feel more like accusation than invitation.
The manosphere is, in that sense, a symptom as much as a cause. It fills a vacuum. When no one credible is speaking to a young man's confusion and pain, and then someone muscular and rich arrives on his phone screen and says "it's not your fault, and here's who's to blame" — that lands with some. Of course it does.
The problem is not that these young men are weak or gullible. The problem is that what they're being handed, in place of genuine guidance, is a distorted version of masculinity that may do them – and those around them – more harm than good. I dread the thought of my son being exposed to such influence(r)s, but also trust he has the heart and guidance to not be invaded by them.
The uncomfortable truth is that many young men who find their way into these spaces are not looking for misogyny. They're looking for something far more basic: direction, belonging, and a sense that their struggles are real and understood.
As Theroux notes, "there are a lot of lonely men out there" — men navigating a world in which traditional markers of male identity (e.g. manufacturing work, clear social roles, uncomplicated expectations) have shifted, and where the cultural conversation about masculinity can sometimes feel more like accusation than invitation.
The manosphere is, in that sense, a symptom as much as a cause. It fills a vacuum. When no one credible is speaking to a young man's confusion and pain, and then someone muscular and rich arrives on his phone screen and says "it's not your fault, and here's who's to blame" — that lands with some. Of course it does.
The problem is not that these young men are weak or gullible. The problem is that what they're being handed, in place of genuine guidance, is a distorted version of masculinity that may do them – and those around them – more harm than good. I dread the thought of my son being exposed to such influence(r)s, but also trust he has the heart and guidance to not be invaded by them.
A Different Kind of Strength
Now. Back to that moment.
It began with Thierry Henry asking if he could deliver Micah Richards' introduction at the beginning of their regular Champions League show. What followed wasn't the kind of introduction anyone in the studio — or watching at home — could have anticipated.
Henry started by reflecting on the end of his own career. He recalled how he had played for a decade through extreme pain in both Achilles tendons. Difficult as that was, he noted that he was nonetheless able to finish his career on his own terms. Then he turned to Micah — a man who had endured a catalogue of injuries across his career: Achilles, thigh, calf, ankle, and knee; a man who had his first operation at seventeen or eighteen years old; a man who played his last game of professional football at the age of twenty-nine, having reached the point where fluid had to be drained from his knee every three days. For Richards, unlike Henry, the opportunity to end his career on his own terms had been taken away from him.
"You couldn't [end it on your own terms]," Henry acknowledged, before adding:
"So I have the utmost respect for you for dealing with that. I don't know how you dealt with that mentally. And yet you're always sitting here happily, lifting the spirits of everybody. I just wanted to tell you that, because we don't take you for granted. Sometimes you might think that you're not being seen. And we see you. And I have to say that you are in my hero bracket."
Just process that for a moment. You are in my hero bracket. Words from one of the greatest footballers who has ever lived, to a colleague, on live television – not because of what he achieved, but because of how he faced suffering.
Invited by skilled presenter Kate Scott to elaborate further, Micah — caught off guard, visibly moved — spoke honestly about what those years had cost him:
"I was definitely depressed. But I didn't address it. I was drinking a lot to sort of mask it."
He went on to describe how a friend, Madge, had helped him restore perspective — encouraging him to ask himself a different set of questions: Are you happy? Have you got your family around you? As Micah put it: "It's not all the other things that come with it — that's just a façade, all the 'bells and whistles' that come with being a professional footballer. But it made me look at life differently, in terms of: There's more to life than cars and houses. It's about relationships and the people around you."
American footballer Clint Dempsey, drawing on his own experience of retirement, asked Micah how he had found purpose after his football career ended. Micah reflected that punditry had given him back something he hadn't known how to grieve: the camaraderie, the connection, the sense of still belonging to the game.
Henry closed the exchange with characteristic precision: "It's important to tell people the other side of the game, and the mental aspect of it, because people can relate to pain. They cannot relate to what we have achieved sometimes, but pain they can relate to. So thank you."
Think about what all of that actually took. This wasn't a therapy room, coaching session, or a confessional podcast. This was live television under the scrutiny of millions of global football fans. There was no script, no safety net, no prior arrangement. Henry chose to be vulnerable first — and in doing so, created the conditions for Micah to be vulnerable in return.
And what happened? Not ridicule. Not discomfort. Connection. Genuine, human, moving connection — between men who had the courage to be real with each other in public.
Compare that to the manosphere's definition of strength.
The manosphere says: never show vulnerability. Thierry initiated it.
The manosphere says: emotional expression is weakness. Micah's openness about depression and alcohol read as the opposite of weakness — it read as bravery.
The manosphere says: relationships between men are competitive and transactional. This was mutual admiration, freely given, with nothing to gain.
The manosphere says: a man's worth is earned through dominance and achievement. Henry's message was: your worth is not your career record — I see you, and you are my hero.
And the manosphere, for all its talk of cars and watches and Dubai penthouses, has never once produced a moment like that.
It began with Thierry Henry asking if he could deliver Micah Richards' introduction at the beginning of their regular Champions League show. What followed wasn't the kind of introduction anyone in the studio — or watching at home — could have anticipated.
Henry started by reflecting on the end of his own career. He recalled how he had played for a decade through extreme pain in both Achilles tendons. Difficult as that was, he noted that he was nonetheless able to finish his career on his own terms. Then he turned to Micah — a man who had endured a catalogue of injuries across his career: Achilles, thigh, calf, ankle, and knee; a man who had his first operation at seventeen or eighteen years old; a man who played his last game of professional football at the age of twenty-nine, having reached the point where fluid had to be drained from his knee every three days. For Richards, unlike Henry, the opportunity to end his career on his own terms had been taken away from him.
"You couldn't [end it on your own terms]," Henry acknowledged, before adding:
"So I have the utmost respect for you for dealing with that. I don't know how you dealt with that mentally. And yet you're always sitting here happily, lifting the spirits of everybody. I just wanted to tell you that, because we don't take you for granted. Sometimes you might think that you're not being seen. And we see you. And I have to say that you are in my hero bracket."
Just process that for a moment. You are in my hero bracket. Words from one of the greatest footballers who has ever lived, to a colleague, on live television – not because of what he achieved, but because of how he faced suffering.
Invited by skilled presenter Kate Scott to elaborate further, Micah — caught off guard, visibly moved — spoke honestly about what those years had cost him:
"I was definitely depressed. But I didn't address it. I was drinking a lot to sort of mask it."
He went on to describe how a friend, Madge, had helped him restore perspective — encouraging him to ask himself a different set of questions: Are you happy? Have you got your family around you? As Micah put it: "It's not all the other things that come with it — that's just a façade, all the 'bells and whistles' that come with being a professional footballer. But it made me look at life differently, in terms of: There's more to life than cars and houses. It's about relationships and the people around you."
American footballer Clint Dempsey, drawing on his own experience of retirement, asked Micah how he had found purpose after his football career ended. Micah reflected that punditry had given him back something he hadn't known how to grieve: the camaraderie, the connection, the sense of still belonging to the game.
Henry closed the exchange with characteristic precision: "It's important to tell people the other side of the game, and the mental aspect of it, because people can relate to pain. They cannot relate to what we have achieved sometimes, but pain they can relate to. So thank you."
Think about what all of that actually took. This wasn't a therapy room, coaching session, or a confessional podcast. This was live television under the scrutiny of millions of global football fans. There was no script, no safety net, no prior arrangement. Henry chose to be vulnerable first — and in doing so, created the conditions for Micah to be vulnerable in return.
And what happened? Not ridicule. Not discomfort. Connection. Genuine, human, moving connection — between men who had the courage to be real with each other in public.
Compare that to the manosphere's definition of strength.
The manosphere says: never show vulnerability. Thierry initiated it.
The manosphere says: emotional expression is weakness. Micah's openness about depression and alcohol read as the opposite of weakness — it read as bravery.
The manosphere says: relationships between men are competitive and transactional. This was mutual admiration, freely given, with nothing to gain.
The manosphere says: a man's worth is earned through dominance and achievement. Henry's message was: your worth is not your career record — I see you, and you are my hero.
And the manosphere, for all its talk of cars and watches and Dubai penthouses, has never once produced a moment like that.
The Real Difference
Here is what I think lies at the heart of the contrast.
The masculinity the manosphere sells is, fundamentally, performative — always staged, always curated, always selling something, always to an audience. It is masculinity as brand. And like all brands, it requires constant maintenance, constant escalation, and it cannot afford to let the mask slip.
What Thierry and Micah demonstrated is something entirely different. Genuineness. Two men, genuinely with each other, in a real moment, not performing for anyone. Secure enough in themselves to be vulnerable. Strong enough — in the truest sense — to be kind.
That is not weakness. Sometimes, given societal expectations, it can be the hardest thing. However, in the words of Morrissey/The Smiths: “It’s too easy to laugh, it’s too easy to hate, it takes strength to be gentle and kind.” Damn right.
The manosphere promises young men that wealth, status, and dominance are the destination. Micah Richards — a man who actually got there, who lived the dream of a professional footballer's life with all its “bells and whistles” — sat on international television and said with conviction: "There's more to life than cars and houses. It's about relationships and the people around you."
That is not the voice of a defeated man. That is the voice of a man who found out what actually matters, and had the integrity to say so out loud.
The masculinity the manosphere sells is, fundamentally, performative — always staged, always curated, always selling something, always to an audience. It is masculinity as brand. And like all brands, it requires constant maintenance, constant escalation, and it cannot afford to let the mask slip.
What Thierry and Micah demonstrated is something entirely different. Genuineness. Two men, genuinely with each other, in a real moment, not performing for anyone. Secure enough in themselves to be vulnerable. Strong enough — in the truest sense — to be kind.
That is not weakness. Sometimes, given societal expectations, it can be the hardest thing. However, in the words of Morrissey/The Smiths: “It’s too easy to laugh, it’s too easy to hate, it takes strength to be gentle and kind.” Damn right.
The manosphere promises young men that wealth, status, and dominance are the destination. Micah Richards — a man who actually got there, who lived the dream of a professional footballer's life with all its “bells and whistles” — sat on international television and said with conviction: "There's more to life than cars and houses. It's about relationships and the people around you."
That is not the voice of a defeated man. That is the voice of a man who found out what actually matters, and had the integrity to say so out loud.
What I Want for My Son
I have a son. One I am proud of. And when I think about what I want him to grow up believing about what it means to be a man, it is not what the manosphere is teaching.
I want him to know that his worth is not conditional. That he was born with value, and nothing he does or fails to do can take that away.
I want him to know that women are to be respected as equal partners; not dominated, controlled, or treated as objects for a man’s gratification.
I want him to know that the capacity to feel — to grieve, to struggle, to love, to be moved by another person's pain — is not a flaw in his character. It is the best of him.
I want him to know that the strongest men he will ever meet are often the gentlest ones. The ones who don't need to dominate through power. The ones who ask good questions and actually listen to the answers. The ones who, when someone they care about is suffering, lean in rather than look away.
I want him to see that vulnerability, offered with courage, does not diminish you. It connects you — to other people, to yourself, to life as it actually is rather than as performance demands it should be.
Thierry Henry and Micah Richards showed all of that in a few minutes on a football show.
That's the kind of man I want my son to aspire to be.
I want him to know that his worth is not conditional. That he was born with value, and nothing he does or fails to do can take that away.
I want him to know that women are to be respected as equal partners; not dominated, controlled, or treated as objects for a man’s gratification.
I want him to know that the capacity to feel — to grieve, to struggle, to love, to be moved by another person's pain — is not a flaw in his character. It is the best of him.
I want him to know that the strongest men he will ever meet are often the gentlest ones. The ones who don't need to dominate through power. The ones who ask good questions and actually listen to the answers. The ones who, when someone they care about is suffering, lean in rather than look away.
I want him to see that vulnerability, offered with courage, does not diminish you. It connects you — to other people, to yourself, to life as it actually is rather than as performance demands it should be.
Thierry Henry and Micah Richards showed all of that in a few minutes on a football show.
That's the kind of man I want my son to aspire to be.
Reflection Questions
- What does being a “real man” mean to you?
- Think of a man you genuinely admire — not for his achievements, but for the kind of person he is. What qualities come to mind?
- If a young man in your life was consuming manosphere content, how would you respond? What would you say?
- When did you last tell someone — a friend, a son, a colleague — that you appreciate them? What stopped you, or what made it possible?
References
Kiselica, M. S. & Englar-Carson, M. (2010). Identifying, affirming, and building upon male strengths: the positive psychology/positive masculinity model of psychotherapy with boys and men. Psychotherapy (Chic), 47(3): pp. 276-87.
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