Quiet Strength: A Reflection on Presence, Performance, and the Masculinity We've Forgotten

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I was in a healing space recently that was meant to honor masculine energy. That was the theme. That was the intention. But what I felt there was the opposite of what I’ve come to recognize as real masculine presence.

This piece is inspired by that experience, but it’s not an accusation, a takedown, or a call-out—nor is it confined to that one experience.  It’s a reflection. A response to something I’ve seen—not just in that room, but everywhere:  

In workplaces. In relationship dynamics. On social media. In movies and music. In how we’re taught to lead, speak, act, and show up as masculine-identified individuals.  

It’s a pattern that’s so ingrained in our culture, it’s easy to miss if you’re not watching for it.  

And impossible to ignore once you are.

The Cost of Missing the Mark

In that healing space, I witnessed the gap between performance and presence.  I felt it in the way the space was controlled, not held. In the way the facilitator pushed an agenda instead of allowing each person's experience to unfold naturally. In the way my clearly signaled boundary was ignored—despite prior agreement on what that signal would mean.  

The moment that boundary was crossed wasn’t dramatic, and it didn’t result in confrontation.  Direct eye contact and a silent shake of my head was all it took for the message to land. But despite the quiet external response, something within me registered a rupture.  

A rush of heat moved through my chest—swift and scorching, like a grass fire.  

Rage, yes. But clean. Contained.   

It wasn’t violent or explosive. Just real.  

And what came next was even deeper: grief.  

Grief not just for what had taken place in that space, but for the larger pattern.

Grief for What We’ve Forgotten

Because this space was meant to embody sacred masculine energy.

And what I witnessed there was the same distorted version of it we’ve all been fed for years—the one that confuses power with control, presence with showmanship.  

I’ve come to know a different kind of masculine presence.  

One I trust. One that doesn’t need to dominate to feel strong.  

It’s still.  

It’s grounded.  

It listens more than it speaks.  

It moves with reverence and respect—both for oneself and for others.  

It doesn’t take up space, it holds space—for truth, for emotion, for whatever needs to move.  

It’s strong not because it’s rigid, but because it’s steady.  

And when the rage burns down to grief, it still stands—arms open, unshaken, not afraid to hold what hurts.  

That’s the masculine presence I want to see honored in our culture.  

Not the loud version. Not the inflated version.  

The real one.

This Isn’t Just About One Room

What broke me open about that moment wasn’t just the breach of a boundary. It was the fact that it happened in a space that claimed to honor the sacred masculine—and even there, he was missing.  

This isn’t just a problem in spiritual circles. This is everywhere.  

It’s in the way we reward confidence over humility.   

Action over attunement.   

Control over care.  

We keep calling things “masculine” that aren’t.  

We hand out leadership roles to people who can command a room—but not hold one.  

We’ve forgotten that strength can be quiet.  

We’ve forgotten what the real thing feels like.

A Quiet Reminder

This isn’t a message from a teacher. I’m not offering advice. I’m just noticing what I’ve noticed, and sharing it because I don’t think I’m the only one feeling it.  

Whether we’re holding a position of authority or just trying to be a better human in our daily lives—this moment in the world is asking something deeper of us.  

To slow down.  

To get real about what kind of presence we’re offering.  

To notice when we’re performing instead of listening.  

To stop confusing force with power.  

Because the kind of masculinity I trust doesn’t need to be loud.  

It doesn’t fill the room.  

It makes space—for the fire, for the grief, for all of it.  

And I know that kind of masculinity is still here.  

Still alive in our bones. 

Just waiting for us to stop trying to prove something—and come home to it.

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Reflection questions I'm sitting with:

• What happens when I stop trying to prove and instead simply show up? How does it feel in my body? How does it impact my interactions with others?

• What parts of me still believe I need to be louder, tougher, or more "masculine" to be respected?