There are days when the world feels like a room with too many alarms going off at the same time. Climate crisis. Wars. Economic uncertainty. Division in families, circles of friends, societies. A constant stream of news that runs over your nerves like sandpaper. And in the middle of it all, you – a man who is supposed to function, be stable and deliver continuously. As if your chest had a built-in steel plate. As if exhaustion were a character flaw.
Perhaps you know the two classic escape routes: harden up or disappear. One way says: close your eyes and get out. Get tougher. Become faster. Even more control. The other way says: retreat and disappear. “It’s no use anyway.” Both ways are understandable. Both are human. And both cost you something: the first makes you unapproachable. The second leaves you drained of strength and energy. And while you are contracting inside, the very thing you are protecting yourself from is growing out there. The question is not whether you can save the world. The question is: what man is entering this world through you today? What sound comes out of your mouth when you are tired? What attitude is in your shoulders when you feel threatened? What energy do you bring to your relationship, to your work, to your family, to your street? You don’t have to solve everything, but you can’t pretend that life is none of your business.
There is a provocation that hurts because it is true: Neutrality is not innocence. Those who look away leave the field to those who shout the loudest. Those who opt out inwardly become another failure in a system that is already running at its limit. Crises don’t need perfect heroes. Crises need men who remain present when things get uncomfortable. Clear, conscious men who can hold the space.
You may feel resistance as you read. Good. Resistance is often the place where something true comes knocking. Because it’s easier to talk about those up there, about politics, corporations and systems, than to look where it really hurts: at your own involvement. Not in the sense of guilt, but in the sense of power. Men have power, even if they feel powerless. Power in language, in spaces and in relationships. Power in whether a conversation becomes safe or aggressive. Whether children dare to ask questions or learn to remain silent. Whether they make closeness possible or poison the atmosphere. And yes: even if you don’t see yourself as powerful – you shape culture. Every time you laugh along with a joke that degrades. Every time you remain silent even though something is wrong. Every time you pass on pressure instead of digesting it. Culture is not just out there. Culture is created by millions of small decisions. And that’s why the question “Which man do I want to be?” is not private. It is political and it is spiritual. Yes, it is an answer to the times.
For some, spirituality sounds like taking off and spiritual frippery. Forget that. Spirituality is brutally practical in times of crisis: it is the ability to hold on to meaning when the surface is burning. It is the ability to not let fear drive you into ideology. It is the ability not to let your ego be the only yardstick. Spiritual is the man who not only asks: “How can I get through this well?” but: “How can I get through this in my truth?”
Presence is by no means a romantic idea. Presence is like a muscle that grows the more often I consciously train it. Presence means: I can withstand reality without becoming cynical. I stay in touch without losing myself. I feel fear, sadness, anger – and I don’t use them as an excuse to be tough. A mature man is not one who is never afraid. A mature man is prepared to feel fear without turning it into dominance or withdrawal.
When systems wobble, nervous systems react. Your body doesn’t just read the headlines with its eyes – it reads them with its gut and with all its cells. He reacts with basic tension, irritability, sleep disturbances, the urge for quick answers. Many men are socialized to define their dignity in terms of usefulness: “Be strong. Stay stable. Get results.” This may work well in quiet times. In times of crisis, it becomes a cage, because no one can be permanently stable when the world is on fire. And because at some point you realize that functioning is no substitute for a stable inner home. Many men have been trained to be problem solvers – but not sense-makers. You know how to optimize, plan and execute. But when you are confronted with your own grief, with your own helplessness, with the feeling that you are not enough, then the old reflexes kick in: harder, faster, louder – or get out. However, crises are not just technical problems. Very often they have to do with meaning and purpose. And meaning cannot be calculated like an Excel spreadsheet. Perhaps you have learned to manage emotions by overriding them. You may have learned to turn sadness into work and fear into opinion. Perhaps you have become strong by separating yourself from yourself. That is a form of survival. But survival is not the same as living. And crises demand more than survival strategies: they demand integrity.
Integrity sounds like morality, but in reality it is something physical. It’s that moment when your inside and your outside come together again. You don’t just say what’s right: you live and embody it. You don’t hold your values in front of you like a shield to make yourself unassailable. You use them like a compass to guide you when your vision becomes poor. Responsibility is the word that many men choke on. Because responsibility so often sounds like guilt. Like: You are the problem. You have to make it right. But guilt paralyzes, responsibility moves. Responsibility doesn’t mean being the savior. Responsibility means: I take action. I take seriously what my presence in a room triggers – and what my absence causes. I am prepared to see my part without castigating myself and without apologizing.
A man who is needed in a crisis is not only competent. He is focused and internally aligned. He can lead without dominating. He can protect without controlling. He can be clear without hurting. And he has enough humility to learn – even when his ego would rather be right. There is an old idea of masculinity that becomes particularly loud in times of crisis: the masculinity of the mask. It is hard, fast and perceived as superior. It has an opinion on everything and a heart for nothing. It confuses strength with untouchability. And it leaves behind a trail of silence: Men who don’t dare to ask for help. Relationships that starve from the unspoken. Children who learn that feelings are something to be ashamed of. That is not strength. It’s culturally inherited fear in a suit.
And yes: the other pole is also seductive. The man who pulls himself out of everything because he can no longer stand the force of the world. Who is only ironic. Who says: “It’s all broken anyway.” Resignation sometimes feels like protection. But in truth, it is a slow freezing to death. You don’t become less vulnerable when you go numb. You just become less alive. If you really want to immerse yourself in the vision of a conscious man, ask yourself not “What role do I want to play?” but “What qualities do I want to embody?” Not in the sense of self-optimization, but as an answer to a time that is hungry for orientation.
Imagine a man who is really there. Not just physically – inwardly. He listens without immediately fixing things. He is responsive, even when he is tired. He can endure conflict without attacking or retreating. His face is not constantly on defense. His eyes are not constantly in flight mode. Presence is his silent protest against confusion.
Imagine a man who does not use truth to win, but to clarify. He says what is – respectfully, clearly and without drama. He says no when it’s his turn to say no. And he says yes when his yes is not just convenience. He knows that those who never set boundaries do not protect. If you only ever set boundaries, you don’t connect. He learns both.
Imagine a man who is emotionally mature. Not soft-spoken and nice, but able to feel without destroying. He can hold grief without being ashamed of it. He can channel anger without burning people. He can name fear without letting it become the boss. This maturity does not make him weak. It makes him dangerous – for any form of violence that relies on unconsciousness.
Imagine a man who redefines protection. Not in the sense of control or possession, but as reliability. As: You are safe with me. It’s not about being in control of everything, but about being in control of yourself. This man protects dignity, his own and that of others. He intervenes when people are degraded. He does not remain silent when violence is normalized. And he doesn’t have to shout. He just has to stand still.
Imagine a man who doesn’t first ask: “What’s in it for me?” but: “What’s in it for life?” This is not moralizing. It’s a change of perspective. He recognizes that in a world that cries out for profit everywhere, genuine care is radical. He lives in such a way that his life not only consumes, but contributes. And he does not contribute out of self-sacrifice, but out of solidarity.
Imagine a man who remains a student. A man who can admit mistakes. Who doesn’t break down when he realizes he has hurt someone, but courageously goes and fixes it. Who can apologize without making himself look small. Who can ask for help without feeling emasculated. This ability is perhaps the most underestimated form of strength: a willingness to learn. It doesn’t make us perfect, but it makes us capable of development.
Imagine a man who doesn’t see community as a weakness. Who doesn’t believe he has to carry everything alone. Who builds circles. Who doesn’t just meet other men over a beer, but in real life. Who asks: “How are you really doing?” – and who can take an answer that is not pretentious. Men who relieve each other emotionally are not a luxury. They are infrastructure. Without them, pressure eventually turns into violence – either internally or externally.
Now for the uncomfortable part: the shadow. In times of crisis, it doesn’t get smaller. On the contrary, it becomes more visible. The shadow is not evil. It is what has not found a safe expression in you. It shows itself as cynicism, as devaluation, as moral hardness, as an escape into work, as an addiction to dopamine, as coldness, as the silent hope that someone else will finally take responsibility. If you don’t know your shadow, it controls you. If you get to know it, it loses its secret power.
Many shadow strategies have one origin: shame. The shame of not being enough, of being dependent or vulnerable or both. Shame is a feeling that men often translate into high performance – or into defense. But shame loses its power when it is given light. Not the harsh light of self-condemnation, but the warm light of honesty. You don’t have to condemn yourself in order to change. But you do have to stop avoiding yourself. Look at what crises do to your view of other people. Do you become tighter in times of pressure? Does your world view become harsher? Do you still see individuals – or only opponents? Crises tempt you to see things in black and white. They make complexity exhausting. But that is precisely the test: can you remain differentiated when things get emotional? Can you use your head without amputating your heart? And take a look at how you deal with your own vulnerability. Many men carry a secret dogma: “If I show my vulnerability, I will lose respect.” This dogma is old. And it’s also wrong. You don’t lose respect through feelings. You lose respect through unconsciousness. Through acting out. Through the invisible poison that develops in rooms when you don’t listen to yourself and others have to pay for it.
Maybe you don’t want to be the spiritual man. Maybe you just want to be a man who doesn’t explode so often. Who doesn’t drink, scroll, work so much anymore so that he doesn’t have to feel himself. Who doesn’t treat his relationships like side projects. Who doesn’t constantly live in comparison. It’s not about labels, it’s about direction. Direction also means: you accept that the world needs you – not as a savior, but as a reliable player. How rare has reliability become today? How rarely do people really listen these days? How rarely does anyone take responsibility these days without seeking the stage? In a time when many people only react, a man who acts in a focused manner is a disruptive factor – in the best sense of the word. A disruptive factor for chaos.
And then, very specifically: what is your contribution against brutalization? Not as a big manifesto – as an embodied attitude. If you are in a room where women are spoken about in a derogatory way, do you remain silent or do you set a framework? If you’re in a room where people are being dehumanized, do you step in or do you interrupt? You don’t have to preach. But you can say a sentence that raises the level. Sometimes a quiet: “I don’t want to talk about people like that.” That’s provocative because it takes you out of your comfort zone. And because it makes you visible. This is exactly what many men are afraid of: becoming visible – not as a winner, but as a person. But visibility is the price of integrity. If you have values, they will be tested at some point. Not even in big speeches, but in small everyday situations.
Many men teeter between two extremes: total activism and total resignation. Save everything or don’t care. Both are destructive. What is needed is grounded effectiveness: small enough to be permanent and clear enough to be real. You don’t have to fight everywhere. But you can take responsibility somewhere. You can decide that you don’t become an additional source of fire yourself.
Grounded effectiveness begins where it becomes unspectacular: with your nervous system. You nurture it so that you are not constantly living in alarm mode. You reduce the dopamine overkill that shreds your attention. You learn to differentiate between information and intoxication. You build routines that stabilize you so that you don’t just react in conflicts. This is not self-help kitsch. This is leadership. Because if you’re constantly overheating inside, you’re not leading anyone – not even yourself.
And then: you become concrete – out of clarity, not out of pressure. You practise truth in your relationship. You lead fairly in your team. You take your role as a father, partner and friend seriously instead of letting it run on the side. You set boundaries against violence and degradation – in conversations, at work, with friends. You become someone who not only has an opinion, but a practice. Not with the intention of looking better. No, you do it because life needs you. And if you’re now thinking: “It’s all too much” – then listen. The feeling is real. And it’s a signal: your system wants security. Don’t give it security through numbness. Give it structure and connection. Through a life that doesn’t just feel like a reaction. The man you want to be doesn’t come from pressure. He comes from choice. And again and again.
Perhaps the deepest answer to the question “What kind of man do I want to be?” is not a concept, but a vow. A silent promise to life, to your loved ones and to your future self: I will not surrender to numbness. I will not save myself as a cynic. I will not hide behind irony when courage is needed. I will not define myself by performance when humanity is required.
A man who is needed at this time is not perfect. He is one thing above all: reliable. He makes mistakes and fixes them. He feels fear and remains approachable. He gets angry and doesn’t become destructive. He is tender and remains clear. He is strong because he lives within himself.
In a world of multiple crises, a new masculinity is being born. Not the masculinity of the mask, but the masculinity of the heart. At this time, we don’t need men who control everything, but men who protect life. And it doesn’t start with big words that are not followed by action. It starts with a no that has dignity. With a yes that carries. In a conversation that you no longer put off. In a step that is small, but real. If you ask yourself what kind of man you want to be, then stop looking for an ideal image. Look for direction. For the next true step. And then for the next one. Crises are fires. They burn away masks. They show what is real and what is a façade. And they don’t ask you if you’re ready. They just ask you: will you be there?
written by Yasmin Floria Kreß – Business Partner of Frank Rechsteiner