By Rob Okun
I’ve spent decades writing about men—how we’re shaped, how we’re wounded, and how too often those wounds are mistaken for strength. (I’ve also chronicled how a growing movement of men has been redefining manhood and masculinity.) The wounds, though, and what we are witnessing today, are both familiar and deeply unsettling. For a decade on the political stage, Donald Trump has been a revealing example of what happens when damaged masculinity is rewarded rather than healed—and then amplified by power. It’s not just chilling, it’s dangerous, no more so than today, when he’s recklessly starting wars.
Understanding his deep emotional wounds is not an act of sympathy. It is an act of clarity. Harmful men are not born fully formed. They are made—by families, by culture, and by expectations that teach boys early that vulnerability equals weakness. Trump’s niece, the psychologist Mary L. Trump, has described his childhood as shaped by emotional deprivation and a father who prized winning above empathy. In that home life, where affection was conditional, and tenderness too risky, survival depended on projecting invulnerability at all costs. Trump learned early to practice the art of the no feel.
Many males recognize parts of this story because they themselves were raised inside versions of it. Boys learn quickly that fear must be hidden, pain denied, and humiliation answered with aggression. It seems the older Trump gets, the more aggressive he’s become—from Venezuela to Iran.
Some men grow beyond the twisted lessons about manhood with which they were raised. Others spend their lives trying to outrun those unavoidable truths. When a man formed this way gains enormous power—and discovers that cruelty is rewarded with applause—private wounds can become public policy. Trump is a case in point.
Whatever injuries shaped Donald Trump, the choices he has made while wielding power are his own. Again and again, he has chosen divisiveness over unity, grievance over responsibility, and domination over collaboration. He’s surrounded himself with sycophants who reinforce anger and exclusion as virtues, framing empathy as weakness and compromise as surrender. Look at damaged men like Stephen Miller, RFK Jr., and Pete Hegseth—and wannabe men, like Pam Bondi and Kristi Noem; they’re all contributing to his efforts to replace a democratic country with a fascist state.
Understanding this dynamic helps explain why MAGA has resonated so deeply with a (thankfully, shrinking) number of Americans. The slogan always was elusive, an unattainable promise to restore the US to the “good old days”—when the country was run by white men.
Beneath the nostalgia lies something more powerful—and anti-democratic: a longing for order in a multicultural world. In it is a version of masculinity where strength equals control. That vision too often manifests as hostility and resentment toward immigrants, hatred of gender equality, and full-on racism, laughably dressed as patriotism.
None of this means MAGA supporters are irredeemable. Many were drawn to Trump because they felt ignored—economically insecure, culturally disoriented, or dismissed by political elites. Young men, in particular, who have faced rising loneliness and shrinking social connection, have been exploited while navigating an online ecosystem that profits from grievance. Influencers and podcasters offer simplistic explanations for complicated struggles, telling listeners that feminism, diversity, or social change are responsible for their frustrations.
Meanwhile, many Republican leaders who privately acknowledge how dangerous Trump is remain publicly silent. Their behavior reflects another familiar dynamic: the schoolyard bully whose power persists because they fear becoming the next target. Loyalty becomes less about principle than survival.
This is where the conversation returns to manhood and masculinity—and not Trump’s alone. A thriving masculinity does not deny pain; it learns from it. It does not demand domination; it practices responsibility. Strength is not measured by how loudly one humiliates opponents but by the willingness to accept limits, admit mistakes, and defend democratic norms even when doing so carries personal risk.
For Americans who supported Trump out of frustration or hope for change, this moment offers an opportunity rather than a rebuke. Reconsidering a leader is not weakness. Changing course is not betrayal. Democracy depends on citizens willing to reassess when loyalty begins to conflict with conscience. Think of the song protesters in Minnesota have been singing to ICE agents: “It’s okay to change your mind/ Show us your courage/Leave this behind. You can join us./ Join us here anytime.”
The question before us is what we choose next. While Trump continues to inflict wounded masculinity on the country—masquerading it as strength—he is mistaking grievance for leadership. Our wounds, personal and national, can drive us toward fear and exclusion. Or, they can push us toward a more expansive vision of manhood—one grounded in empathy, accountability, and shared humanity.
The line each of us must draw is not about politics alone. It is about the kind of strength we want to model for the next generation—and whether we are brave enough to choose democracy over domination, and healing over fear.
Rob Okun (robokun50@gmail.com), syndicated by PeaceVoice, is editor emeritus of Voice Male, which has long chronicled the profeminist men’s movement. The magazine is now published by the Canadian NGO, Next Gen Men.
