Freeing Men from the Cage: The Cost of Power and the Weight of Control

Vikram had never raised his hand against anyone. But people listened when he spoke. His presence, his voice, his certainty in every conversation—it was enough. Enough to make his friends fall silent when he disapproved. Enough to make his wife second-guess herself in arguments. Enough to make sure that he was never the one to back down.

And then, one day, she left.

“You were never cruel,” she told him, “but you were never safe either.”

That line stayed with him. What did she mean? He hadn’t hit her. He hadn’t screamed. He had just been right. All the time. That was his job, wasn’t it? To be the strong one. To be the one in control.

And yet, there he was—alone, defeated, wondering why being “strong” had cost him everything.

The Lie About Power

Vikram is not alone. Across the world, men grow up learning the same lesson: strength is power, power is control, control is everything.

No one ever says it outright, but boys absorb it in the way their fathers never cry. In the way their friends laugh off vulnerability. In the way no one ever asks them what they feel—only what they can do.

And so, they grow into men who learn that their worth is measured in how much space they occupy. How much respect they command. How little they bend.

The world tells them that this is what it means to be a man. But the world does not prepare them for how heavy it is.

Because no one warns them about the price of control.

The Loneliness of Being the Strong One

Farhan was a man other men looked up to. The kind you call when you need something done. Decisive, commanding, unshaken. He knew how to handle a situation.

He also hadn’t cried in over a decade.

“I didn’t even realise I was lonely,” he said, “because I was surrounded by people. But no one really knew me. I was respected, sure. But I don’t think I was loved.”

Love, after all, required vulnerability. And vulnerability was something Farhan had been taught to eliminate.

“I thought I had power. But power without connection is just isolation.”

That is the part of the story that men are never told. That control is a lonely place. That dominance is a cage. That being feared is not the same as being held.

What Happens When Men Let Go?

Imran grew up believing that in every relationship, there had to be one person in charge. His father had led the house. His uncles had led their families. Men were meant to be the ones making decisions. Holding things together.

Then one day, his girlfriend asked him: “Do you actually like being in control all the time?”

No one had ever asked him that before.

“I didn’t,” he admitted later. “It was exhausting. But I thought it was what I had to do.”

When he let go—when he stopped performing control and just was—he didn’t become weaker. He became lighter.

For the first time, he was in a relationship where he wasn’t proving anything. And for the first time, he realised how much of his life had been spent performing.

Performing strength. Performing certainty. Performing masculinity.

And never asking what it would feel like to just be.

What We Don’t Talk About

It is easy to talk about masculinity in extremes—violence, aggression, domination. But what about the more invisible things?

What about the men who are always “the responsible one”? The men who feel like they can never falter? The men who carry the weight of their families, their relationships, their friendships—because that’s what they were taught strength looks like?

What about the men who never cry at funerals? The men who swallow their sadness and call it resilience? The men who have never been held the way they hold others?

What about the men who are exhausted?

Because there are many of them. And exhaustion is not freedom.

Not Altruism—Survival

When men hear conversations about gender violence, they often feel like they are being asked to give something up. Give up power. Give up privilege. Give up the way things have always been.

But what if it isn’t about giving up? What if it is about getting back?

What if letting go of control means getting back intimacy? What if rejecting dominance means getting back real respect? What if breaking free from performance means getting back a life that feels real?

What if the fight against gender violence is not about what men must do for women—but about what men must do for themselves?

Vikram, Farhan, and Imran did not change because they wanted to be better men for women. They changed because they realised they deserved better for themselves.

The world told them that power would make them whole. It lied.

And when they let go—when they stopped gripping so hard at the need to control, to dominate, to prove— That’s when they finally breathed.

That’s when they were finally free.