To Every Woman I Took for Granted—I'm Sorry
This isn’t a self-help post. This isn’t virtue signaling. This is a confession, an apology, and a reckoning from a Gen-X man who spent far too many years confusing dominance with masculinity and sex appeal with self-worth. I was taught wrong. And for too long, I believed it.
The Blueprint Was Broken
I came of age in a culture drunk on machismo and misogyny. My role models? Hugh Hefner in a bathrobe, Larry Flynt in a courtroom, Trump in a boardroom, Ron Jeremy in a bedroom. They didn’t teach me to see women—they taught me to consume them. Every girl I met became a mirror for my insecurities or a body to validate my power. I called it normal. But it was broken.
I carried that blueprint into my relationships. I expected devotion without giving it. I wanted passion without presence. And I mistook tolerance for love. That damage wasn't just done to the women I hurt—it was done to the boy I used to be, who never got the chance to learn what real respect looked like.
The Women Who Broke the Spell
Somewhere along the way, the narrative cracked. Maybe it was Ellen DeGeneres, making authenticity look braver than any action hero. Maybe it was Rosie O'Donnell, refusing to shrink herself for anyone. Or Cyndi Lauper, whose weirdness taught me that femininity was never meant to be caged.
Lita Ford and Lzzy Hale didn’t just rock stages—they demolished stereotypes. And WWE’s Charlotte Flair? She walked into arenas like a gladiator, proving you could be feminine and feared in equal measure. These women didn’t ask for permission. They didn’t apologize for taking up space. They became the blueprint I never had.
But the real turning point came through sound—The Hu's "Song of Women" featuring Lzzy Hale. That video hit different. It wasn’t lust. It wasn’t fantasy. It was reverence. Women weren’t just partners—they were power. And for the first time, I didn’t want to possess it. I wanted to protect it.
Confession: Lust Isn’t the Enemy—Disrespect Is
I’ve stared. I’ve objectified. I’ve lusted and called it love. But I’ve also been confronted by the Divine Feminine through every woman I failed to honor properly. Your strength terrified me. Your softness disarmed me. Your silence—when you should’ve raged—shamed me more than any sermon.
And I need to say this clearly: you were never the problem. My programming was. The church, the locker rooms, the movies, the music—they lied. They told me control was godliness. They were wrong. You deserved more than the gaze. You deserved a witness. An ally. A man with his eyes open and his ego in check.
Sinead Was Right
Back then, I laughed. I didn’t get it. The shaved head. The torn photo of the Pope. It looked like a tantrum. But now? Now I know it was a prophecy. A holy rebellion. A scream we weren’t ready to hear. Because if the Church—and the culture—had really been listening, we’d have burned the patriarchy instead of her reputation.
So here’s my picture—of every toxic belief I once carried. I’m setting it on fire, metaphorically and spiritually. I don’t want that version of manhood back. I want the version that kneels, listens, learns, and loves without trying to own.
Appreciate women. Without them, men wouldn’t exist—biologically or spiritually. They’re not the weaker sex. They’re the missing piece. And it's damn well time we stop pretending otherwise.
