I will be gone for a few weeks. So I wont be posting anything, and I do not check my messages on here via my phone so I will get back to them once my computer gets out of the repair shop.
Love you all
Stay Safe
The other night, I was curled up on the couch with my Masters, half paying attention to the show, half just enjoying being close. It was one of those quiet, comfortable moments where nothing feels heavy. And then the scene happened.
Someone on the show needed a code phrase, something subtle, something that would let their partner know they were in danger without tipping off the person right in front of them. I remember laughing at first. Because somehow, we didn’t have one.
And that felt ironic in the most ridiculous way. I am such a true crime junkie. I’ve watched the documentaries, listened to the podcasts, gone down the rabbit holes, and my college degrees are right in this field. You would think this is one of those conversations I would’ve had at the very beginning of our relationship.
But we hadn’t.
And the more we laughed about it, the quieter it got. Because then it hit us, this actually matters. Not in a dramatic, paranoid way. Not in a “the world is always dangerous” way. But in a grounded, real life kind of way. The kind where you acknowledge that life is unpredictable, and having a plan doesn’t mean you expect the worst, it just means you care enough to be prepared.
So we talked about it. Really talked about it. What it would sound like. How it would work. What would feel natural enough to say in front of someone else without raising suspicion, but still clear enough that it would immediately set off alarms for the person hearing it.
I’m not going to share what we chose. That part stays ours. But I will say this, if you don’t have something like this set up with your partner, you might want to think about it. Because you never know. And creating it is more intentional than you might think.
Code Words Aren’t About Fear, They’re About Trust
The biggest thing I learned in that conversation is that a code phrase isn’t just about danger. It’s about understanding each other deeply enough to recognize when something is off.
The best phrases aren’t dramatic. They’re subtle. They blend into normal conversation, but they carry a weight that only your person would recognize.
For example:
“Hey, can you check on the blue folder when you get home?”
“I think I left the stove on, can you go check?”
“Did you feed the hamster yet?” (this works if you don't own a hamster.)
The key is choosing something that feels just slightly out of place. Not enough to raise suspicion for anyone else, but enough to make your partner pause and think, wait, something’s wrong.
When Subtle Isn’t Enough
We also realized there’s a difference between uneasy and urgent. And that matters. Sometimes you don’t just need someone to check in, you need them to act.
That’s where a stronger phrase comes in. Something that still sounds natural, but signals immediate danger:
“I need you to come home right now, please.”
“Can you bring me my red sweater?” (especially if you don’t even own one)
“I locked myself out again.”
Can you bring me med medication, I forgot it. (Use a medication you are allergic to.)
It’s not about being clever. It is about being clear, without being obvious.
Layers Matter More Than You Think
One of the smartest things we talked about was creating levels. Because not every situation is the same.
A softer phrase can mean: Something feels wrong, check in with me.
A more urgent one can mean: Call me immediately.
And then there’s the one that means: Don’t call me. Call for help.
That layering creates clarity in chaos. And when you’re under stress, clarity is everything.
What I Hope You Take From This
If nothing else, take this. Have the conversation. Don’t assume you’ll “figure it out” in the moment. Stress doesn’t make us more creative, it makes us simpler, quieter, smaller. Plan for that version of yourself.
Pick something easy to remember. Something you could actually say naturally. Something your partner will recognize instantly without needing to second guess. And maybe even test it. Not in a scary way, just enough that you both know it works.
You can even build in small signals, like a specific missed call pattern or an emoji you’d never normally send. It doesn’t have to be complicated. It just has to be understood. We never know what the future holds. And I don’t live my life expecting something bad to happen. But I do live my life loving the people I trust enough to protect, and to be protected by.
And sometimes, that protection starts with something as simple as a sentence that means more than it sounds.
I get asked fairly often how I handle being in a poly dynamic with two Masters, while they also have another slave, and I serve not only them but the house and its members as well. The truth is that it isn’t easy.
I do have moments where I feel hurt, or a little abandoned. There are times I struggle with feeling like I’m not enough, or that I fall short in some way. And yes, jealousy still finds its way in from time to time.
But I try to meet those feelings with honesty and humility, rather than letting them control me. So I wanted to take a moment to share a little bit about my experience. I may have spoken on this before, but I felt it was time to gently revisit it again.
I never expected that my path would lead me from a fully monogamous mindset into the world of polyamory. If I’m honest, when I first stepped into it, I was not prepared for what it would stir inside of me. I carried so much, anger that I didn’t fully understand, jealousy that felt sharp and consuming, and a deep, quiet sense of unworthiness that whispered I was somehow “less than.”
I struggled more than I ever let on. I wanted to be good. I wanted to be open. I wanted to be the kind of slave who could accept, trust, and grow, but instead, I found myself spiraling in emotions that made me feel small and ashamed.
A few years ago, I started researching polyamory more seriously. I was trying to find something, anything, that would help me make sense of what I was feeling. And I did find something. Something simple, but it changed everything for me.
We’re often told, “your feelings are always valid.” And yes, feelings exist, and they deserve to be acknowledged. But what I learned, and what truly helped me more than anything else, was this.
Not every feeling means something is actually wrong. Not every feeling is rooted in something that is truly affecting me.
The only feelings that I’ve learned to treat as actionable, as something that requires a response or a conversation, are the ones tied to something that directly affects me.
For example
If a new movie comes out that I really want to see, and I find out one of my partners went to see it with their meta, that doesn’t actually affect me. I can still go see that same movie with them. Nothing has been taken from me. Nothing has changed in what was available to me.
But, if my partner had told me, “I’m going to see this movie with you,” and then chose to take someone else instead, that does affect me. That touches on my time, my expectations, and the connection that was directly offered to me. That is where hurt has a foundation.
Learning to separate those two things, it quieted so much of the chaos inside me.
Now, when I feel that familiar sting, jealousy, sadness, that creeping voice of “you’re not enough”, I pause. I soften. And I ask myself,
Does this actually, directly affect me?
If not, why am I feeling this way?
Did I have an expectation that I never voiced?
Am I seeking reassurance, but not asking for it?
Sometimes the answer is uncomfortable. Sometimes it reveals insecurity, fear, or a longing I didn’t want to admit. But sitting with those truths has helped me grow in a way that reacting never did.
There are still moments where I falter. I am not perfect. I still feel small sometimes. I still have days where my emotions rise faster than I can steady them. But nine times out of ten, I can walk myself back down. I can return to a place of calm, of trust, of understanding my role and my place without letting fear distort it.
Being in a poly dynamic with my Masters and Tova has stretched me in ways I never imagined. It has required surrender, not just in the way I serve, but in the way I face myself. It has asked me to be honest, to be accountable, and to grow beyond the comfort of possessiveness into something deeper, something rooted in trust.
If you’re struggling the way I did, please know you’re not alone. And maybe try asking yourself those questions. Sit with your feelings, but also gently challenge them. Not everything that hurts is harm. Sometimes, it is just a part of us asking to be understood.
I want to begin by sharing my personal understanding of humility and the way I experience it.
Humility is the quality of having a modest view of your own importance. It means recognizing your strengths without exaggerating them, accepting your flaws without denial, and not placing yourself above others.
At its core, humility is about balance, being confident but not arrogant, self aware but not self degrading. A humble person is open to learning, willing to admit mistakes, and respectful of others’ value and perspectives.
It’s not thinking less of yourself, it’s thinking of yourself accurately, without needing to be the center of everything.
I've recently heard someone say the statement, “Humility makes us forget who we are for the sake of our Masters.” And every time I read it, something in me resists it deeply, because that has never been my experience, and more importantly, it is not what humility means to me.
My humility does not erase me. It does not blur the lines of who I am, or soften me into something shapeless and dependent. It does not strip me of identity, voice, or self worth. If anything, my humility has required me to know myself more, not less. To understand my needs, my boundaries, my emotions, and my growth in a way I never did before.
Before I stepped into this dynamic, I struggled with self worth. I let people walk over me because I didn’t believe I deserved better. That wasn’t humility, that was a lack of self. That was silence where there should have been a voice.
What I have now is entirely different.
My humility is a conscious choice. It is me standing firmly in who I am and choosing to offer respect, trust, and devotion, not because I am lesser, but because I am aware. Aware of my strengths. Aware of my flaws. Aware of the power in giving myself with intention, not losing myself without it.
I do not disappear behind my Masters. I stand beside them as myself, growing, learning, sometimes stumbling, but always present. My voice still exists. My thoughts still matter. My feelings are not erased for the sake of obedience. True structure, true leadership, and true connection do not demand that kind of disappearance, they require honesty and presence.
If I were to “forget who I am,” there would be nothing real left to offer. Because devotion without identity is empty. Submission without self awareness is not strength, it’s vulnerability without protection. And that is not something I am willing to call humility.
Humility, for me, is knowing exactly who I am, and choosing, willingly and fully, how I show up. It is grounding, not erasing. It is clarity, not confusion. It is strength wrapped in softness, not silence forced by fear. So no, humility does not make me forget who I am. It reminds me.
There was a time when I measured my worth in other people’s eyes.
Every glance felt like judgment. Every whisper felt like it was about me. I learned early that love came with conditions, and beauty was one of them. Growing up, I was taught, explicitly and painfully, that being anything less than “pretty” or ”perfect” meant being less than worthy.
If I was overweight, I was ugly. If I was ugly, I was nothing.
That belief didn’t just live in my head, it was handed to me. When I got sick as a teenager and my body changed in ways I couldn’t control, I didn’t just lose my sense of self. I lost the version of me that was “acceptable.” I gained weight because my body was fighting for me, but all anyone seemed to see was that I no longer fit the mold.
And my Bio father? He made it clear.
He told me that when I was “pretty again,” he’d put my pictures back on the wall. He told me women only make it in this world two ways, by being pretty or by being smart, so I’d better get a degree. He made me run miles while he chased me on a bike. I had to wear sweat suits under all of my clothes at all times. Imagine being told, so plainly, that your value is conditional. That your body determines your worth. That love can be taken down like a photograph and tucked away until you’re “good enough” again. For a long time, I carried that with me. I shrank. I hid. I tried to earn approval that was never freely given.
But not anymore!
Fuck that. Fuck him. And fuck anyone who thinks they get to decide my worth. I am not America’s next top model. I am not airbrushed or flawless. I have wrinkles. I have scars. I have stretch marks. I am overweight. And I am perfectly imperfect. I am proud of who I am. I am proud of my submission, my surrender, my truth. I am confident in my skin, not because it meets some arbitrary standard, but because it is mine. I stopped chasing approval the moment I realized it was never mine to earn in the first place. If someone doesn’t like how I look? If someone doesn’t like who I am? That’s not my business. I have one life. One body. One chance to exist as fully and as freely as I can. And I refuse to waste it trying to fit into someone else’s expectations.
So I walk differently now.
With a skip in my step. With fire in my chest. With no fucking regrets. I glow as I go. Not because the world told me I shine, but because I decided I do. And to anyone out there still battling those quiet, gnawing insecurities. Look at your flaws. Really look at them. And then understand this, There is no one else in this world exactly like you. Not one.
You are a rare, priceless soul. Not in spite of your differences, but because of them.
So stop dimming yourself. Stop waiting for permission. Strut in the knowledge of who you are. Live bright. Live loud. And sparkle like you were always meant to. Because you definitely do.
I feel like I’m finally in a place where I can talk about a recent experience that affected me deeply. It is something that ultimately led to me stepping away from, and blocking, someone I had been mentoring and growing close to as a friend. I won’t be sharing any identifying details, but this situation has stayed with me in a very real way.
Content Warning: - This writing contains references to abuse and domestic violence. Reader discretion is advised, especially for those who may find these topics distressing.
I met this person through social media and we connected quickly. After some time, I invited them to join our server, so we could talk more easily. I was genuinely excited, we had a lot in common, and I was happy to welcome a new friendship into my life. Over time, they began seeking guidance not only from me but from others in our space, both Dominants and submissives, around power exchange and relationship dynamics. Eventually, I took on more of a mentorship role with them.
As time went on, they would come to us frequently in distress, sharing ongoing struggles within their relationship. They described patterns of verbal harm, blame, and emotional pain that raised serious concerns. Based on what was shared, and even messages I was shown, it appeared to be an unhealthy and possibly abusive dynamic. Many of us gently encouraged seeking professional support, but they expressed that they did not believe in therapy. Looking back, that was something I wish I had paid closer attention to.
This wasn’t something I navigated alone, others in our community, including my Masters and several experienced Dominants, also offered support and perspective. We all cared deeply and wanted to help.
Things escalated over time. They became physically ill, and there were concerns about neglect in their care. One night, they came to us in visible distress, saying they had been physically hurt by their partner. To the point their face was covered in bruises. We encouraged them to seek medical attention, which they did, though they chose not to disclose the full situation to healthcare professionals despite encouragement to prioritize their safety.
A short time later, there was another incident. They reached out again, frightened and asking for help. Begging to speak to me alone after informing eight other people, including my Masters that their partner had badly beaten them up again. I was eventually able to speak with them privately, and during that conversation, it became clear they were in a very unsafe moment. Their partner entered the room while we were speaking. They begged their parterner to leave them alone, and not to hurt them again. They refused to leave so I calmly asked for space to be given so they could feel safe.
That request was not received well.
At that point, I made it clear that if space wasn’t respected, the only way to ensure safety might be to involve emergency services. The situation escalated emotionally very quickly. They began telling my friend how bad of a person I was, because I desired those bad men with guns to show up to hurt them. Then they demanded my friend hang up the phone, because they were done with me. That was they hung up while saying they will reach out to me in a moment. They did not reach out right aaway so I worried about them.
I was deeply afraid for their wellbeing.
With the limited information I had, Their name, city/state, and one phone number. I made the difficult decision to request a welfare check. I did this after guidance fro my own Masters. So I did this out of genuine concern, hoping simply to ensure they were safe. When authorities arrived, they stated they were fine. That my friend had no idea what I was talking about.
Afterward, they were understandably upset with me. They felt that I had crossed a line, and they used terms that I don’t feel accurately reflect what happened. Saying I doxxed and swatted them? I used only the information they had given me, and a welfare check is not swatting. Even so, I can understand why it may have felt overwhelming or invasive from their perspective.
For me, this was never about control, panic, or projection. It was about care, concern, and doing what I believed was the safest option in a moment that felt genuinely dangerous.
What ultimately led me to step away completely was receiving a message that felt threatening in nature, one that did not feel like it came from the person I had been speaking to, but rather reflected outside influence from their spouse. At that point, it became clear that continuing any form of contact was no longer healthy or safe for me.
I want to be clear about one thing, I will never regret trying to ensure someone’s safety. Even if it means being misunderstood, even if it means being seen as the “bad guy” in someone else’s story, I can live with that. What I could not live with is doing nothing in a moment where someone may have been in real danger.
At the same time, I also understand that leaving an abusive situation is incredibly complex. It is not simple, and it is not something anyone can force another person to do. I hold space for that truth, and I genuinely hope they find safety, healing, and support in time. Before it is too late.
Sometimes caring about someone means making a choice they may never agree with. And sometimes, it also means knowing when to step away with compassion, for them, and for yourself.
They are of course still active in this community. I hope they can find a better support system for themselves before they becoem more harmed, or their partner ends up harming someone else.
During a Gorean event I participated in, a topic was raised that stayed with me long after the discussion ended. The conversation centered on pride in a kajira, and the belief held by some that a kajira cannot, and should not, possess pride at all. Hearing that perspective made me pause, reflect, and look inward, not just at the conversation itself, but at my own life, my submission, and the path I have walked for over two decades.
I have been in the Gorean lifestyle for twenty four years now. In fact, Gor is where my kink journey began. From the very beginning, it was made clear to me, repeatedly and firmly, that I am not a Free Woman, and therefore would be treated as the property I am. I read the books again and again, studied them, interpreted them, and did my best to understand them from as many angles as possible. Through that time and experience, it became very clear to me that the pride of a Free Woman and the pride of a kajira are not the same thing, and were never meant to be.
Free Women of Gor are treated with respect by men, and rightly so within the structure of that world. A Gorean Free Woman takes pride in her free status and the autonomy it grants her, owing obedience to no Master and standing firmly in her own will. She values her name, her house, and her reputation, knowing that honor once lost is difficult to reclaim. She carries herself with composure, restraint, and deliberate grace. Her intellect, education, and chosen skills, whether in trade, healing, politics, or craft, are marks of her standing, as is her ability to negotiate, influence, and steward property wisely. Her femininity is not submission, but presence and power, expressed through her conduct, speech, and presentation. Loyalty, when she gives it, is freely chosen and deeply meaningful. Her pride is rooted in independence, discernment, and the courage to stand alone in a harsh world, leaving behind a legacy defined by her name and her will.
A kajira’s pride lives somewhere else entirely.
A Gorean kajira takes pride in her enslavement as an honest acceptance of her nature and her place, finding purpose in belonging and being owned. She values her obedience because it is sincerely given, her service because it is intentional and meaningful, and her training because it is a lifelong path of growth and refinement. Discipline, of mind, body, and emotion, shapes her grace, attentiveness, and usefulness, allowing her to anticipate needs and serve with quiet beauty. She holds pride in her humility, her endurance, and her ability to be still and silent when silence is required. Her femininity is expressed through softness, receptivity, and devotion. Her loyalty and trust, once given, are unwavering. Above all, her pride rests in her submission, not as weakness, but as the deliberate surrender of will, and in living authentically as what she is.
This is where my pride lives.
I have been a kajira for twenty four years now. That sentence still settles heavily in my chest when I write it, not with burden, but with meaning. Twenty four years of learning, unlearning, kneeling, serving, growing, and slowly discovering who I am when I stop trying to stand on my own and instead choose to belong. Being a kajira is not something I do. It is who I am at my core. It is the way my mind finds peace in obedience, the way my heart settles when I am given structure, purpose, and expectation. Submission has never been weakness for me. It is discipline. It is self knowledge. It is the quiet strength of choosing service again and again in a world that insists independence is the only virtue that matters.
The pride of a kajira is real, but it is different. It is not loud. It is not defiant. It is not rooted in the self. A kajira’s pride lives in her service. In how well she listens. In how attentively she responds. In how carefully she tends to her duties. It is pride in obedience freely given, pride in usefulness, pride in offering herself fully and sincerely. I take pride in doing my duties well. In serving with intention. In knowing that my submission is conscious, consensual, and built through trust. I take pride in the care I bring to my service, in my willingness to learn, to accept correction, and to grow. I am also deeply proud of being owned by my Masters.
Ownership, to me, is not about loss. It is about belonging. It is about being seen, shaped, and guided by those I have chosen to give myself to. My Masters’ ownership gives my submission direction and weight. It gives my service meaning beyond myself. Being owned is an honor I do not take lightly, and I carry that responsibility with humility and gratitude. A kajira’s pride is quiet, but it is unshakable. It lives in consistency, patience, and endurance. It lives in knowing her place and valuing it. It lives in understanding that service is not about perfection, but about devotion and effort.
I am proud of how far I have come. Of the lessons learned through both joy and hardship. Of the woman I have become through submission. I share this not to convince anyone else to walk my path, but to speak honestly from my lived experience. For those who understand, I hope this resonates. For those who do not, I hope it offers a glimpse into why this life holds meaning for some of us.
La Kajira!
I am owned.
I serve.
I surrender.
And I carry that truth with pride.
Over the past two weeks, I have noticed something gentle but profound unfolding inside of me. The fog that had been quietly clinging to my thoughts has begun to lift. I feel lighter. Less depressed. Not only as an individual woman, but as a submissive within my dynamic. As a slave in service. As someone deeply devoted to her Masters and to the structure of their House. The shift has been subtle, but undeniable. It feels like the first warm morning after a long, biting winter, when you open the door and realize the air no longer hurts your lungs. The sun is simply, there again.
For a long time, I have prided myself on being someone others can come to. I have always offered my ear, my heart, and when asked, my counsel. I speak from lived experience, from trials endured, lessons learned, mistakes owned. Service to community has always mattered to me. I believe mentorship, when done ethically and with humility, is sacred work. But what I did not realize was how much constant exposure to other people’s relational distress was quietly shaping my own internal world.
Over and over, I found myself in conversations where dynamics were criticized, partners were dissected, Masters were doubted, slaves were resentful. And inevitably the question would come: “How did you survive what you went through?” or “How do you make it work?” And I would answer. Thoughtfully. Earnestly. Drawing from my own past pain. What I failed to notice was that this created a kind of emotional merry go round. To help someone feel less alone, I would revisit difficult chapters of my own history. To validate their struggle, I would mentally reenter storms I had already weathered. To offer guidance, I would place myself back into the mindset of hardship rather than stability.
Psychologically, this makes sense. Humans coregulate. We mirror one another’s emotional states. Research in social psychology shows that repeated exposure to negative relational narratives primes our brains to scan for similar threats in our own lives. This is called negative attentional bias, the more we hear about betrayal, neglect, resentment, or imbalance, the more our nervous system begins to search for those patterns around us.
And when the majority of your conversations center around what is wrong, your mind begins to highlight flaws that were once neutral, or even endearing. I spoke about this once in a class I taught, if you place a happily partnered person in a social circle dominated by divorces and breakups, something subtle begins to happen. They start noticing every minor irritation in their own relationship. Habits that never truly bothered them become magnified. Small quirks become evidence. The lens shifts. Not because the relationship changed, but because the narrative environment did.
I now believe this is exactly what was happening to me.
As submissives, and especially those of us who serve within structured dynamics, we often hold space for others. We mentor. We soothe. We contextualize. We help people regulate. But when that becomes the only emotional environment we occupy, we never step out of “advisor mode.” We never return to simply being. And being is vital.
These past two weeks, without constant immersion in those heavy conversations, I have felt something realign. My dynamic feels softer. Warmer. My connection with my Masters feels clearer. My bond with their other slave feels more harmonious. The relief has been physical, like a weight lifting from my shoulders. Nothing about my House changed. What changed was the emotional climate I allowed myself to live in.
Misery may love company, but I do not need to live inside it to be compassionate. There is a difference between service and self sacrifice of emotional stability. There is a difference between mentorship and marinating in dysfunction. Boundaries are not cruelty. They are stewardship.
From here on out, I will still be of service to my community. I will still be present for my friends. I will still offer guidance when it is genuinely sought and appropriate. But I will no longer be constantly surrounded by those who only wish to dwell in negativity. You have to be around me for good times too.
If I begin to notice that the majority of our interactions revolve around complaints, bitterness, or cyclical relational drama, I will gently distance myself. Not from lack of care, but from devotion to my priorities. My relationship with my Masters. My harmony within my House. My service to the House of Koch, and my own peace. These are not things I will allow to be eroded by passing friendships or repetitive despair.
I am a submissive. My service is intentional. My devotion is chosen. And my emotional stewardship is part of that service. The sun is shining again. And I intend to stand in it.
I want to say this as clearly and as gently as I can, if you reach out for support, you are not a burden, and it is not a sign of weakness. That is what I am here for. I have no issue sharing space with you when you need it. Whether you need to vent, are looking for advice, or need help locating information or resources to assist you. I do my best to help and to serve our community, and I take pride in being someone who can be there so you feel seen, heard, and valued.
Part of why this matters so much to me is because there was a time in my own life when I truly felt alone, like I had no one at all. I never want another person to feel that way if I can help it.
With that said, I also want to be honest, I am human. I make mistakes like everyone else, and I have my own struggles, including a very stressful vanilla life situation right now. There will be days when I simply have no spoons to assist anyone. When I say I have no spoons, please understand that it is not rejection. It just means I may need a little time, maybe a couple of hours, to reset before I can fully share space with you in the way you deserve.
I am also not a crisis professional, and I cannot advise on crisis situations. If you are in that space, I will always encourage you to contact trained professionals and provide information to help you reach them. There is absolutely no shame in asking me to help you find that support, or even to sit with you while you make that call. If needed, I would even sit with you at a hospital and hold your hand while you talk to doctors and tell them you need help.
Because you are valued and you bring something beautiful to this world, even if you cannot see it right now.
I
do want to be clear about one thing though, I am not an echo chamber. Seeking help or support is not weakness, it is strength. You are never a burden for needing help, and you never need to apologize to me for reaching out. That said, sharing space with me should also be a place for growth. A place to learn from mistakes, to be accountable when needed, and to keep moving forward. You will not be judged here, and you will be respected, appreciated, and encouraged to grow into the best version of yourself.
We all need help sometimes. We all need support. We all make mistakes. And all of that is okay, as long as we learn, grow, and keep giving ourselves grace along the way. So please reach out. Seek support. Seek connection. And most importantly, be gentle with yourself as you grow into an even more beautiful version of who you are becoming.
Content Warning - This writing briefly references physical and sexual abuse.
Lately, I’ve been listening to a handful of podcasts, and one episode in particular stuck with me long after it ended, not because it was profound, but because it echoed a mindset that’s been circulating loudly for well over a decade. If I’m being honest, it is exhausting to hear the same narrative repeated without nuance, reflection, or depth.
I’ve also noticed a pattern here on social media, Posts fueled by rage, blanket hatred, and inflammatory soundbites often rise in popularity, while thoughtful reflections rooted in lived experience quietly fade away. As tempting as it is to unpack those double standards, that isn’t why I’m writing today.
What I am writing about is something a woman said during that podcast, and the reaction it stirred in me, shaped by my own experiences and the life I’ve lived.
During the episode, a man interviewed a woman who openly stated that she hates men. Her words were blunt and unapologetic: men suck, men are trash, and she wouldn’t save a man even if he were on fire. She'd rather be with the bear, over a man. When the interviewer asked a simple follow-up, “Why do you hate men?”, she replied that men harm women, and therefore all men are predators, rapists, and murderers.
When asked whether a man had ever harmed her, physically, sexually, emotionally, or mentally, her answer was no, not a single time in her life. She explained that her beliefs came entirely from what she sees on social media.
And this is where I struggle.
Her worldview wasn’t shaped by lived experience, but by headlines, outrage cycles, and algorithm driven content designed to provoke fear and anger. Much of what circulates online isn’t always factual. Some stories are satire. Some are exaggerated. Some are misinformation crafted for clicks. Others are real and heartbreaking, but stripped of context. This is why I don’t live by rumors. I choose facts, evidence, and critical thinking.
Let me be very clear: yes, some men can and do cause harm. Some of that harm is violent, devastating, and deserving of serious accountability within the justice system. I also know many people never report what happens to them, out of fear, shame, guilt, or concern for retaliation.
I know how hard that is. I’ve reported before and was blamed for what happened because I “allowed myself” to be in that situation. That response is crushing, and it needs to change.
But it is not all men.
Blaming an entire gender for the actions of a subset isn’t awareness, it is projection. And it is dangerous thinking.
I find it deeply ironic when I hear women, even the one on the podcast, say they’d rather be lost in the woods with a bear than with a man. This is why I find this hilarious.
Bears are not evil, but they are powerful wild predators. Black bears, often labeled “less aggressive,” are still fast, strong, and capable of predatory behavior, especially if a person is injured, isolated, or vulnerable. Trees and distance are not reliable protection, and predatory attacks tend to involve stalking and persistence.
Brown bears and polar bears pose even greater danger. Grizzlies are massively strong, territorial, and capable of sudden, overwhelming defensive attacks, particularly near cubs. Polar bears are the most dangerous of all, as they actively hunt large prey and will investigate humans as food. Alone in polar bear territory, there is virtually no margin for error.
Being lost in the woods with a man is fundamentally different. A man is capable of communication, empathy, moral choice, and cooperation. He can assess risk, share resources, seek help, deescalate conflict, and act with intention and restraint. A bear cannot. Wildlife danger is absolute and uncontrollable, human interaction always carries the possibility of shared humanity.
Before anyone questions whether I have the “right” to speak on this, here is my reality.
I have been assaulted. I have been beaten, punched in the face by one ex, put into a coma by another. I was jumped as a teenager and had my face smashed with a rock. I was sexually assaulted. I was molested as a child. If anyone could justify hatred by experience alone, it would be me.
And yet, I don’t hate all men.
Because blame belongs exactly where it should: on the people who committed the harm. Not on an entire gender. Not on a stranger who has done nothing wrong.
What breaks my heart is the messaging that has dominated the last decade or two. The idea that men should be erased, silenced, canceled, or told they shouldn’t exist at all. Sometimes the rhetoric goes so far as telling men they should kill themselves.
My brothers grew up hearing that. My nephews are growing up hearing that. My Masters lived through that narrative. And that is profoundly wrong. What I often see is unprocessed pain projected outward, paired with a lack of critical thinking skills. Many of the people speaking this way need healing, emotional maturity, and support. With growth, this language often softens, I just wish it didn’t take so long.
What made the podcast conversation even more disheartening was hearing this woman say she wants to date men. She wants to marry one. I genuinely wonder how someone can hate an entire group while still craving intimacy, partnership, and love from them?
Why, I love men.
Men are not evil. I will never hate them. I love them. I love their creativity and ingenuity. I love their strength, physical, emotional, and moral. I love their steadiness in crisis and their protective instincts. I love their quiet loyalty and their willingness to carry unseen weight. I love their problem-solving minds, their sense of honor, and their growth through responsibility. I love how many of them show love through action rather than words. And yes, I love how handsome they are, in all their imperfect, human ways.
And honestly?
Whether you like it or not, We need them.