In 2024, after the breakdown of my marriage, I came dangerously close to falling down the manosphere pipeline. As someone who has become something of a public advocate for healthy masculinities and inclusion, this is not something I find easy to admit or write about. I struggle to reconcile that version of myself, as recent as two years ago, with the man I am today and the values I so strongly believe in. But I also believe it’s important we tell these stories, both to examine how men can find their way into these spaces and how they can find their way out.

The term “manosphere” might seem like a bit of a buzzword, a fringe ideology that exists in dark corners of the internet. We need to recognise that it is far more widespread than that. A 2022 survey by The Man Cave found that a quarter of young Australian men saw Andrew Tate as a role model, and 36% found him relatable. Subsequent studies have found the movement is on the rise, both here and overseas.

Louis Theroux’s recent documentary Inside the Manosphere brought the conversation into the mainstream. The documentary explored the online ecosystem of manosphere influencers and content creators – men who create content about a range of topics from dating, health and fitness through to self-improvement and financial success. Much of the film focused on the business model of these creators – once they build a following, they monetise their content by selling courses or memberships to their followers.

In my case, I was not tempted to buy a course or sign up to a coaching program. My understanding of the manosphere – or the thing that links all its various forms and subcultures – is the underlying belief that feminism is to blame for men’s suffering.

How did I get there? I have described myself as a feminist for most of my life. I have also been a professional people pleaser; I was someone who felt they had always played by the rules, put others first, and worn what I now understand was a mask to get people to like me. This played out for me in football, in work after football, in my relationships and in my marriage. In retrospect, I realise I had very few opinions or beliefs of my own, and where I did I certainly didn’t voice them.

The ending of my marriage shattered all of that. There was so much that I got wrong at that time, and so much I regret – things I am grateful I have been able to work through and am still working through with my ex-wife. But regardless of what was going on within our relationship, it felt like everyone around me had an opinion. I felt abandoned and judged by the people I thought were my friends and community. I felt like a loser and a failure. I started to believe that I was a shit dad. I’m not sure I’d ever been so vulnerable or lonely in my life.

The feeling of abandonment is my strongest memory from that time. My world became tiny, and that’s where my dependence on the online world grew. None of the content I was consuming was overtly harmful; I wasn’t looking for dating advice or tips for the gym. I understand now that it was the subtle thread of misogyny that wove its way through the content fed to me by the algorithm. I watched videos of people criticising feminist voices like Abbie Chatfield and found myself agreeing with them. My political beliefs started to change. When things fell apart at work, I blamed everyone but myself. It felt like the world was out to get me, that I was being punished for being a man. I was angry, lonely, and stuck in a cycle of victimhood. The content told me someone else was to blame, and I believed it.

I am grateful that I had this cycle interrupted, by both my ex-wife, Shae, and my new partner, Lou. I am repulsed now by some of my actions and beliefs from that time, but neither woman ever turned their back on me (although both, particularly Shae, had every right to). They validated and found empathy for my feelings of abandonment, while still holding me accountable for my own actions and privileges. Eventually they created space for me to break down the mask I had worn for so long, to wade through the anger and frustration, and to be honest for the first time about who I was and how I felt about things. These two women changed and saved my life.

This experience ultimately paved the way for me to be able to come out and share my sexuality with the world in late 2025. But more than that it brought a sense of peace and self-acceptance that I had never felt before.

I see the danger of these online voices for young men, and I understand the lure of victimhood, the attraction of blaming external forces for your own suffering. But it’s not real. There is a quote attributed to film producer Franklin Leonard: “When you are accustomed to privilege, equality feels like oppression. It’s not.” I understand that for a lot of men, who perhaps don’t feel particularly privileged beyond the fact of their gender, this can be a difficult idea to understand.

But rather than shaming these men, we need to sit alongside them, understand their pains and frustrations, and guide them to take accountability for their own lives, happiness, and impact on others. I am lucky to have had two women who did this for me. It is so often women and gender-diverse people doing this work, the groups most likely to be harmed by men’s behaviour. As a man and a father, I believe it is now my responsibility to model this for the men and boys in my life. And that starts with these conversations, as shameful and uncomfortable as they can be, about how men can end up in these spaces in the first place, and how they can get out.