Lately the algo been force-feeding me Scott Galloway clips like I ordered the crisis of manhood combo off Uber Eats. Mans out here dropping TED Talk bars about the lads are struggling all sombre voice, all dad-energy like he discovered sadness in 2021.
Don’t get me wrong: he’s affable, polished, got that professorial “your aunt trusts him” vibe. And fair play, maybe he’s wrestled with depression, anxiety, self-esteem gremlins – man’s human. But he’s still a winner, bruv. A high-score merchant. A bloke with more W’s than the Leafs have playoff L’s. And hearing a winner lecture the mandem about losing? It’s giving “safe, but no.”
He’s not talking to the dude in the trenches – he’s talking to worried suburban parents with granite countertops and Costco memberships, hoping their sons stop doom-scrolling and start touching grass.
But here’s the thing: We don’t need more winners giving keynote speeches about struggle like it’s a fable. We need more losers – real humans – talking about how they clawed their way out of the mud. The embarrassments. The awkwardness. The shaky voice conversations. The “man actually survived that?!” stories. That’s the good stuff. That’s what resonates.
Growing up, talking to girls? Nah. Full system shutdown. Elementary, high school, uni — bare tumbleweeds. Zero female friends, zero romance, zero riz, Canadian Tire-grade drought. If the urban legend’s true, my palm should’ve looked like a yeti foot.
My fears back then were a whole checklist of foolishness:
- I’m fat
- I’m not what girls want
- My penis is too small
- My penis has no stamina
- The mandem would chirp me
Not every fear has left the chat – but the list is now closer to the same size as my penis; much shorter.
Statistically? Yeah, I’m obese. On the streets I look like your standard Toronto dad with a belly, but the BMI chart says I’m denser than a Scarborough No Frills on payday. Yet the older I got, the more I realized: most women don’t actually care about physique like we think they do. Some do – cool. Let them cook elsewhere. The majority? If you smell good, have clean teeth, tidy hair, and you’re not a dusty waste youth? You’re good.
Another fear I had: If she gets past the rolls, she won’t rate what I rate. But here’s the plot twist: women don’t need to love your hobbies. They don’t need to know what it means. They just want to see you enjoying something. Confidence looks good on literally anyone. Passion beats aesthetics. Just don’t act like a gatekeeping fedora goblin about it.
And the penis thing? A whole saga.Small? Yes. Olympic gold medal in finishes too quick? Also yes.
But it works, it made a baby, and more importantly, I learned the sacred truth: You can compensate.
Hands, mouth, creativity, IKEA-level problem-solving — bro, you bring what you got and improvise like jazz.
High school? Started at an all-boys school — easy mode for avoiding girls. Then I transferred to a co-ed school and my brain went 404: Too Many Women Detected. Palms hairier than ever.
There was a girl — Patricia — who liked me. And I liked her. But I fumbled the whole quest line because I was terrified the boys would clown me. So nothing happened. That’s youth for you. Stupidity with hormones sprinkled on top.
Eventually I learned if your friends are decent, they’ll hype you up if she’s good for you. If she’s bad vibes, they’ll warn you. Simple.
So what’s my point? Even now, mandem, I’m still nervous around women. Still awkward. Still have new fears. Still a bit of a headcase. But once you get past that initial performing for the void, things click – if they’re meant to. And the fears shrink like they got dunked in cold water.
Oh, and because life’s weird I lost my virginity at 25 in 2002 to a sex worker I ended up not paying. Truly the most Toronto manhood origin story possible. But yo – it broke the mental ice, so bless her for that.