Raising Our Sons in the Age of Loud Men

It happened on a Tuesday afternoon. My son, Bennett, was building a tower with his blocks - the kind of focused, silent concentration only a three-year-old can muster. His tongue poked out slightly as he balanced the last piece on top. Then it fell. His face crumpled. Not in anger, in disappointment and in that split second before he looked up at me, I felt it- the question that's been living in my chest since the day he was born: How do I teach him to feel without teaching him to hide it all?

The Water He'll Swim In

I opened my phone that night after Bennett went to sleep and there it was again- the algorithm serving me what it thinks masculinity looks like now. Gym bros screaming into cameras about discipline. Podcast hosts turning every conversation into combat. Influencers selling dominance as destiny. The message underneath it all, thrumming like a baseline: Be harder. Be louder. Be more. I closed the app, but I couldn't close the thought: This is the water my son will swim in.

The Moment I Knew

Last month, we were at the playground. Bennett was going down the slide- over and over, laughing each time like it was the first. Another boy, around five, pushed past him. "Move! I'm going first!" Bennett froze and looked at me. His eyes searching for what to do. The other boy's father was nearby, phone out, barely watching. When he finally glanced up, he said flatly: "Be tough, man. Don't let people push you around." The boy shoved again and I watched Bennett's little shoulders tense- trying to figure out if he should push back, cry or go to a different part of the playground. I knelt down. Looked him in the eyes. "You're okay," I said. "You don't have to be anything but you." Even as I said it, I wondered: How long before the world convinces him otherwise?

What Keeps Me Up at Night

It's not the big stuff that scares me. It's the small, daily baptisms into a version of manhood I don't recognize. The locker room talk he'll overhear in middle school. The YouTube rabbit holes that start with basketball highlights and end with "sigma male" manifestos. The first time a girl rejects him and someone tells him not to "be a pussy" about it. The gradual erosion of his softness- not by force, but by osmosis. That's how it happens, isn't it? Nobody sits boys down and says, "Stop being kind." They just reward the opposite...again and again. Until kindness feels like a liability.

The Man I Want Him to Become

I think about this often. Not obsessively, but honestly. When Bennett is thirty, I don't care if he's wealthy, famous or impressive. I care if he can:

• Sit with a friend who's hurting without trying to fix them

• Feel his anger without letting it drive him

• Love someone without needing to control them

• Apologize when he's wrong

• Ask for help when he's lost

• Stand firm without standing over someone

• I care if the people in his life feel better for knowing him.

• Not smaller. Not intimidated. Not managed.

The Masculinity Nobody's Selling

There's no viral video for the kind of strength I want to teach Bennett. No ten-step program, merch line or catchphrase, because it doesn't perform well. It's quieter than that. It's my friend Brian, who coaches his son's soccer team and never raises his voice, but every kid on that team would run through a wall for him. It's my good friend Sam, who calls his aging mother every week without fail. It's my brother, who cried at his wedding and didn't apologize for it. These men don't need audiences. They just need to look at themselves in the mirror and recognize who's looking back.

The Part I'm Still Learning

Here's what I'm figuring out as I go: Bennett doesn't need me to be perfect. He needs me to be real. When I mess up- when I snap at his mother, when I lose my patience, when work distracts me from being present- I name it.

• "Dad made a mistake."

• "Dad's working on that."

• "Dad doesn't always get it right, but I'm trying."

If he grows up thinking strength means never failing, I've already lost him, but if he grows up watching me stumble, recover, apologize and keep going, that's the whole lesson.

What I Tell Him Now (Even Though He's Three)

Some nights, after stories and songs, when Bennett is almost asleep, I whisper things I'm not sure he understands yet:

• "You're allowed to be sad."

• "You're allowed to be scared."

• "You're allowed to love things without having to win at them."

• "You don't owe anyone your toughness."

• And sometimes, barely audible:

• "You're enough. Right now. Exactly as you are."

I don't know if he hears me, but I need to say it anyway. For him. For me. For both of us.

The Inheritance I'm Building

In twenty years, Bennett won't remember most of this. He won't remember the block tower that fell. He won't remember the boy at the playground. He won't remember my late-night whispers, but he'll remember something. A feeling. A posture.

A way of being in the world and my deepest hope is this:

That when life gets hard- when he's rejected, disappointed, heartbroken, lost- he won't reach for armor. He'll reach for breath, presence, the people who love him and the quiet, unshakeable knowledge that his worth isn't tied to his volume.

This Is the Work

Raising Bennett in the age of loud men means teaching him that silence can be powerful. That stillness is not stagnation. That tenderness is not weakness-it's precision. It means modeling a masculinity that doesn't need validation from strangers on the internet. A masculinity that can hold grief, joy, confusion and conviction all at once without collapsing. A masculinity that doesn't fear softness—because it knows how much strength it takes to stay soft in a world determined to harden you. I don't know if I'll get this right, but on the mornings when Bennett wakes up and climbs into bed with us, his hair sticking up in every direction, his small hand patting my face, I get another chance. Another day to show him what it looks like to be a man who doesn't need to prove it and honestly that feels like enough.