Beyond “There Are No Good Men”: How Absolutism Forms—and How Healing Begins

Kerry Jehanne-Guadalupe

I once sat with a young man who felt rather invisible. He was not angry. He was not defensive. He spoke softly, as if apologizing for taking up space at all. Somewhere along the way, he had come to believe that his very identity made him suspect—that being male placed him outside the possibility of being seen as good, trustworthy, or worthy of love.

He did not name this belief as ideology. He named it as atmosphere—something absorbed rather than chosen. He encountered it in jokes, in online discourse, in social commentary, and in the subtle cues that signaled suspicion before understanding. Over time, the message settled into him: there are no good men. Once internalized, it quietly shaped the way he oriented himself and the world around him.

What does it do to a human being to grow up beneath a story that renders them irredeemable before they have acted? What happens to a culture when pain hardens into certainty, and certainty replaces discernment?

This chapter does not seek to defend men, dismiss women’s suffering, or argue against accountability. Rather, it is an inquiry into what happens when unresolved pain crystallizes into absolute belief—and the cost that belief exacts on everyone involved.

Where the Saying Comes From

The phrase “there are no good men” does not emerge from nowhere. It arises from lived experience—often from deep, repeated harm. Many women have been betrayed, violated, silenced, dismissed, or endangered by men they trusted. Some have endured abuse within intimate relationships. Others have been harmed by institutions shaped by patriarchal power. Still others carry the cumulative weight of microaggressions, coercion, and fear woven into daily life.

For many, this phrase is not a conclusion but a shield.

When harm occurs repeatedly, the nervous system adapts. The psyche seeks patterns that offer protection. If danger appears consistent, it becomes safer to assume it is universal. In this way, absolutist beliefs can function as survival strategies. They simplify the world. They reduce uncertainty. They promise vigilance in place of vulnerability.

Seen through this lens, the statement “there are no good men” is less an accusation than a grief response. It is an attempt to make sense of pain by imposing coherence on chaos.

Honoring this origin matters. Without honoring it, any discussion risks invalidating the very real suffering that gave rise to the belief in the first place.

And yet—acknowledging why a belief forms is not the same as assuming it is without consequence.

Why Label and Lump?

It is widely understood that we form conclusions from past experiences, particularly when those experiences are accompanied by strong emotion. Over time, these conclusions solidify into beliefs. Beliefs function as notions of truth, and through them, we construct our perceptions of the world. When left unexamined, these perceptions can be mistaken for absolute truth, quietly confining our experience to the limits of what we believe we already know.

Perception, in turn, shapes how we see others. It can create an internal image that feels complete and accurate, even when it is only partial. Our conclusions and the beliefs that follow can generate perceptions so convincing that they no longer invite inquiry. Without realizing it, we may begin to expect others to conform to the image we have formed, responding not to who they are, but to the story we are carrying about them.

Our past experiences often condition us, shaping how we interpret the present and anticipate the future. This conditioning is often projected onto both those we already know and those we have yet to meet. When thoughts are governed by strong emotional memory, new information about a person or group may be filtered—or rejected entirely—if it does not align with what the nervous system has learned to associate with safety or threat. In this way, perception becomes less responsive to reality and more loyal to the past.

Alongside this conditioning, subconscious processes often create symbolic representations of others. When these internal symbols are negative, they can deepen a sense of separation. From separation, the body may enter a stress response, releasing hormones that narrow perception and reinforce vigilance. This physiological narrowing can generate additional beliefs about “those kinds of people,” further solidifying division. Over time, such cycles may move us away from unity and toward increasing separation—both internally and collectively.

This pattern is not unique to gender. History offers countless examples of entire groups being defined by the worst actions of some. What is striking is how quickly dehumanization becomes normalized when it is justified by pain. Once harm is used to legitimize totalizing narratives, complexity often collapses, and the moral imagination narrows. What began as protection slowly becomes enclosure.

The statement “there are no good men,” like any claim framed in absolutes, derives its absoluteness from the word no. When the mind adopts absolute thinking—especially over long periods—it solidifies divisions between self and other. The moment something is defined as absolute, the experience is confined. Possibility narrows. Discernment gives way to preemptive judgment. This applies not only to ideas, but to how we perceive human beings.

Human brains naturally label and categorize; much of this occurs unconsciously as a way of making sense of a complex and unpredictable world. Categorization itself is not a moral failure. It is often a protective response, especially when safety has been compromised. What invites care—rather than judgment—is the moment we begin to examine the meaning we assign to those categories and where that meaning originates.

When beliefs formed for survival remain unexamined, what once offered protection can quietly become a prison. Not because the pain was unjustified, but because unyielding certainty leaves little room for differentiation, encounter, or healing. When we approach our perceptions with curiosity instead of certainty, space opens—for nuance, for discernment, and for the possibility of meeting others as they are, rather than as symbols of what once harmed us.

In this space, we are not asked to abandon discernment or forget harm, but to soften the grip of conclusions that once protected us and now quietly limit what—and whom—we are able to see.

Discernment

Discernment offers an alternative to both denial and condemnation. It is not naïve. It does not ask women to ignore danger or men to escape accountability. It asks something more demanding: attentiveness.

Discernment recognizes patterns without erasing individuals.

Discernment allows for boundaries without collapsing into hatred.

Discernment differentiates between behavior and being.

This work unfolds through personal power—through the steady authority of a regulated nervous system, emotional integration, and the courage to stay with ambiguity when certainty calls.

Discernment is not the absence of judgment—it is the refinement of it.

Humanizing Without Excusing

There is an understandable fear that humanizing men means excusing harm. It does not.

Responsibility and humanity are not opposites.

Accountability does not require dehumanization.

In fact, true accountability depends on recognizing the humanity of the one who caused harm—allowing space for their full humanity to be expressed, including the capacity to take responsibility, reflect, and change.

To say that some men are complex, wounded, and shaped by culture is not to deny that men can cause profound damage. It is to insist that harm does not arise from essence, but from conditioning, trauma, unexamined power, and disconnection from emotional literacy.

Similarly, acknowledging women’s pain does not require framing women as morally superior or men as inherently deficient. Such framing replicates the very logic it seeks to undo.

The challenge can be to hold two truths at once:

·      Many women have been deeply harmed by men, and their pain deserves recognition, care, and accountability.

·      Men, like all human beings, including women, are capable of harm and of goodness; they retain the capacity for responsibility and transformation.

Both truths can coexist without canceling one another out.

I have met men whose lives unfolded under the weight of the belief that there are no good men. Being reduced to a category did not inspire these men to become their best selves. Instead, it often generated an internal struggle marked by self-doubt, shame, and a diminished sense of belonging. Many grew up feeling as though there was no legitimate place for them in the world simply as they were.

People are more likely to become what is recognized and cultivated within them. When masculine energy is consistently framed as suspect or intolerable, development often becomes fraught. Some men have described navigating contradictory messages throughout childhood and adolescence: being told their masculinity was harmful, while simultaneously being instructed not to express vulnerability; encouraged to “man up,” yet warned not to be “too manly”; discouraged from embodying strength, yet criticized for emotional expression. These mixed signals create confusion rather than clarity, and fragmentation rather than wholeness.

Imagine a boy repeatedly hearing that he is inherently untrustworthy, irresponsible, or dangerous simply because he is male. Such messages do not foster integrity or accountability; they erode self-worth. When these boys grow into men, many continue to carry the belief that their natural qualities are toxic, even as they become partners, mentors, or fathers to sons of their own. What is passed on is not transformation, but uncertainty about one’s right to exist fully.

Humanization, by contrast, has the capacity to draw forth the best in others. When people are seen as complex, capable, and worthy of growth, they are more likely to rise into those possibilities. Accountability rooted in dignity invites responsibility more effectively than shame ever could. What fosters genuine growth is not domination or dismissal, but recognition. Humanization does not excuse harmful behavior; it creates the conditions in which responsibility, repair, and transformation can actually take place.

Pedagogy of the Oppressed

In some expressions of contemporary discourse, I hear the belief that marginalizing men—even if it inflicts pain—will bring about healing or empowerment. A few women have shared with me that they wish for men to feel unsafe in the world, mirroring the ways they themselves have felt unsafe. When I listen closely to these sentiments, I do not hear cruelty as much as I hear anguish. I hear the longing for safety translated into the language of reversal.

Beneath these expressions lies the magnitude of pain required for someone to wish pain upon another. When the belief emerges that men must be dominated or put “in their place,” or that safety can only be achieved through suppression, I do not hear certainty—I hear a deep cry. I hear the echo of harm endured, boundaries violated, and trust repeatedly broken. Such beliefs often arise not from a desire to harm, but from an urgent need to feel protected after having felt profoundly unsafe.

For some women, the idea of reversing power—of becoming the victor rather than the vulnerable—can feel stabilizing. In a world long shaped by masculine dominance, the image of the pendulum swinging toward female control may offer a sense of relief, restoration, or moral correction. Feeling empowered by such a shift is understandable when one’s lived experience has been marked by subjugation or silencing. Yet empowerment rooted solely in reversal can quietly narrow the very freedom it seeks.

When power is pursued primarily as a form of retaliation, it often signals unresolved grief rather than true liberation. The longing to overpower or discard men may reflect a wish to finally be seen, believed, and protected—needs that were unmet when they mattered most. In this context, the impulse to dominate is less about supremacy and more about reclaiming agency that was once taken.

At times, this dynamic can begin to mirror the very structures it resists. When men are held as inherently less than—cast as irredeemable oppressors rather than complex human beings—the same hierarchical logic is quietly reinstated. The belief that one gender is superior while another is fundamentally flawed reflects the same consciousness of domination that caused harm in the first place. In this way, oppression risks reproducing itself under a different banner.

This tension is not new. Paulo Freire, in Pedagogy of the Oppressed, observed that “the oppressed, instead of striving for liberation, tend themselves to become oppressors.” His words were not a condemnation, but a caution—an invitation to notice how easily unhealed pain can shape the strategies we use in the name of freedom.

Holding this awareness with compassion does not mean endorsing harm, revenge, or dehumanization. It means recognizing that when suffering remains unintegrated, it often seeks expression through control. What is being asked for beneath the language of domination is not supremacy, but safety; not conquest, but dignity; not revenge, but relief from fear.

No one is fully free while another remains oppressed—not because liberation requires moral perfection, but because domination fractures the relational field we all inhabit. Perhaps the deeper work, then, is not to swing the pendulum toward another extreme, but to allow it to rest in the middle—so that power no longer needs to be wielded as protection, and pain no longer has to masquerade as strength.

The Cost of Absolutism and Our Collective Responsibility

When pain hardens into identity, it often narrows the field of possibility. Absolutist beliefs—on any side—often function like closed systems. They resist nuance, dismiss counterexamples, and punish complexity. What begins as a protective response to harm can gradually become a worldview that leaves little room for discernment or differentiation.

When absolutism becomes collective rather than personal, it has the potential to shape culture.

Pain has the power to compress perception. Men may come to be seen only through the lens of harm—as suppressors, oppressors, or villains—while the possibility of goodness, complexity, or sacredness is eclipsed. This narrowing does not occur because discernment is absent, but because pain can make nuance feel unsafe. When trust has been repeatedly broken, certainty may appear to offer refuge.

What is lost in absolutism is not only accuracy, but the imagination required for forward movement.

·      The imagination required to envision a future that is not bound to the past.

·      The imagination required to believe that healing does not demand war.

·      The imagination required to allow discernment to replace certainty.

Absolutism can feel empowering, particularly when it arises from justified pain. Yet it carries a hidden cost: it freezes growth at the moment of injury. Over time, what once protected may begin to confine, shaping perception in ways that limit both personal and collective evolution.

This does not mean pain must be released prematurely or bypassed. It means pain can be met—listened to, honored, and integrated—rather than enshrined as a permanent worldview. When pain becomes identity, it quietly dictates what can be seen, felt, and imagined.

Because beliefs do not exist in isolation, absolutism has the potential to carry collective implications. The stories we hold shape the relational field around us, influencing not only our own lives but the lives of those within our communities. Children, in particular, are sensitive to the emotional and perceptual atmosphere in which they are raised. Young girls may grow up absorbing the belief that boys and men are inherently dangerous or deficient, shaping their expectations, relationships, and sense of safety in ways that may limit their future. Young boys may internalize the message that something is fundamentally wrong with them, carrying shame or self-doubt long before they have had the opportunity to define themselves.

When a collective story takes hold—such as the belief that all men are bad—it does not remain abstract. It influences how communities form, how relationships are approached, and how empathy is distributed. Marginalization, even when rooted in pain, reshapes the emotional landscape of the group and can quietly perpetuate cycles of separation.

There is a growing awareness among some that what we contribute emotionally and psychologically matters beyond the individual level. The concept of collective consciousness speaks to this interconnectedness—the idea that shared beliefs, feelings, and perceptions form a unifying field that influences humanity as a whole. In this sense, thoughts and emotions are not merely private experiences; they also shape the atmosphere we all inhabit.

I have met people who feel a sense of responsibility for what they bring into this shared field. Aware of their connection to all that is, they approach their inner lives with care. Some engage in contemplative practices, offering compassion, love, or healing intention toward the collective—not as a form of denial, but as an act of conscious participation.

Perhaps the invitation, then, is not toward absolution, but toward discernment. Not toward suppressing pain, but toward transforming it. To teach and embody discernment, knowing, and nuance—and to place these qualities into the atmosphere we share. In doing so, we contribute not only to our own healing but to a collective field that makes space for complexity, accountability, and the possibility of genuine growth.

From Protection to Presence: Healing Beyond the Narrative

When a belief begins to loosen—especially one formed in pain—the experience is not always relief. More often, it arrives as disorientation. The familiar structure falls away before a new one has formed. There may be unease, grief, or fear, as though something once relied upon for stability is slipping. This is particularly true when a narrative has functioned as a form of protection.

For some, holding tightly to a story about “the other” becomes a way of staying safe. The narrative organizes the world, clarifies who to trust, and offers a sense of control in the aftermath of violation or betrayal. Loosening such a story can feel dangerous—not because the story is true, but because it has served as a psychological barrier against further injury. To question it may feel like stepping into vulnerability without armor.

And this is where an essential question may arise: Does the narrative truly bring safety?

If the mere presence or mention of men triggers a nervous system response—fight, flight, or freeze—then the body is not experiencing safety, regardless of the narrative being upheld. The mind may be scanning for threat, the heart bracing against fear, and perception narrowing in service of survival. While the brain is designed to protect us, its survival wiring can keep us alive while quietly preventing us from fully living.

When we become deeply contracted into a narrative, healing often becomes more difficult. The story that once protected us can begin to confine us. In some cases, it may even cause the injury to persist internally. I have observed women who long for liberation and empowerment yet find their attention consumed by anger, vigilance, or contempt toward men. The intensity of focus on what is opposed can eclipse the work of recovery.

Additionally, when masculine consciousness is rejected entirely as something external and dangerous, there is often a corresponding disowning of masculine qualities within oneself—such as agency, assertion, structure, or protective strength. This creates an inner split, reinforcing fragmentation rather than wholeness. Healing, in this sense, is not only about changing how one relates to others, but about restoring coherence within.

A turning point sometimes emerges when it becomes clear that the emotional states being carried—hatred, disdain, chronic suspicion—are causing harm to the one holding them. These emotions do not remain directed outward; they reverberate inward, shaping physiology, perception, and nervous system regulation. Recognizing that ongoing hostility is affecting one’s own well-being can become a catalyst for change.

Healing does not require forgetting harm or dismissing pain. It does not ask for premature forgiveness or naïve trust. Rather, it invites a careful inquiry into whether the stories we cling to are still serving us—or whether they have begun to cost more than they protect. True safety may not arise from standing perpetually against another, but from restoring internal regulation, reclaiming choice, and allowing the nervous system to settle into a state where life can be met with openness rather than constant defense.

In this sense, healing is not the abandonment of discernment, but its deepening. It is the slow, courageous movement from contraction toward coherence—within oneself, and eventually, within the wider human field.

Toward a More Spacious Future

At times, I find myself wondering where humanity is heading. Do we need to continue swinging the male–female pendulum across generations—patriarchal to matriarchal, dominance to reversal—or is it time to dismantle the pendulum altogether? It is difficult to imagine a genuine expansion of consciousness while we remain bound to cycles of opposition, replaying patterns of power, and marginalization in different forms. Balance and harmony between all sexes, and a true advancement of humanity, may arise not through reversal, but through the alchemy of our pain, our differences, and our shared longing for wholeness.

This chapter is not an invitation to forget harm or minimize injustice. It is an invitation to ask what kind of future our stories are making possible.

If we want a world where accountability exists alongside restoration…

If we want safety without dehumanization…

If we want healing that does not require a permanent enemy…

Then we must be willing to examine the beliefs we formed in order to survive—and decide, with care, whether they are still serving life.

The statement “there are no good men” may arise from understandable pain. But when held as absolute truth, it risks becoming another story that confines rather than liberates—another pole in a pendulum that keeps us locked in opposition.

Perhaps the deeper work is not replacing one story with another, nor swinging power from one side to the other, but cultivating the discernment to meet each human being—not as symbol, category, or threat, but as a complex, unfinished life capable of harm and transformation.

This is not easy work. Yet it is the kind of work that moves us forward—not by denying the past, but by refusing to let it dictate the future. In this way, we step out of the pendulum’s arc and toward a more spacious field of possibility—one rooted not in dominance or defense, but in shared humanity and the quiet remembering of our interconnectedness.

In Gratitude: Honoring the Masculine

To all men, thank you for your presence on this planet. Thank you for being fellow souls who have taken on the masculine form in this lifetime. Thank you to the men who work long hours to support their families—not only through financial provision, but through emotional steadiness and spiritual presence. Thank you to the men who are devoted fathers, including those who carry both mothering and fathering roles with care and devotion.

Thank you to the men who protect and defend the dignity of those they love; who make sacrifices, seen and unseen, for the well-being of others; who create safe spaces for women who have been injured; who live with honor, integrity, and reverence for life. Thank you to the wisdom keepers, the quiet leaders, the men who choose honesty, kindness, strength, and compassion.

Thank you to the men who are responsible and dependable, faithful and patient, passionate about life, generous in spirit, and attentive in listening. Thank you for your courage, your care, your presence, and your humanity.

Thank you.