We’ve held space, we’ve held silence, and we’ve held men while they broke us - all in the name of love, patience, or hope. But this essay is a reckoning. It’s about asking men to finally carry their own burden of redemption - to stop waiting for women to do the heavy lifting of their healing. Because unless they choose to carry their own burden of redemption in both public and private life, all their allyship is just performance. And until they learn to carry their own burden of redemption, we will keep living in a world half-built, with broken trust and unfinished change.
Home » Dear Men, Carry Your Own Burden of Redemption
By Anjali Chauhan
I read The Will to Change: Men, Masculinity, and Love by bell hooks slowly over the course of 2024, hoping to understand a small group of men I deeply love. The experience was anything but linear. At times, the words stung—annoyance, anger, even betrayal would rise in me, dredging up memories of the times I had been failed by these very men I love still. In those moments, I would set the book aside, letting it rest on my shelf like a wound left to scab over. But after a while, I would find myself reaching for it again, breathing deeply as if preparing to confront an old ache.
The constant stream of news about the violence—physical, emotional, sexual—that men perpetuate against women, minorities, and the marginalized fills me with a rage so profound it often leaves me numb. I’ve never been able to fully comprehend how such brutality can exist, and yet it surrounds us, seeping into every corner of society. What infuriates me even more is the inevitable chorus of “not all men” that rises in nearly every conversation daring to hold men accountable. It disgusts me, saddens me, and feels like a deliberate diversion—a refusal to confront the rot beneath the surface.
And yet, there is small group of men: those who publicly stand with women victims, proclaiming allyship and solidarity. But I can’t help but wonder, is this commitment rooted in genuine belief, or is it just a performance, a facade of political correctness carefully curated for public validation? Do they carry this accountability into the intimate spaces of their private lives, or does it crumble behind closed doors? My doubts linger.
I suppose we’ve all read the essay on Neil Gaiman. The harrowing, graphic details of abuse and violence it contained pierced through us, bringing panic, pain, and anguish to every woman who read it. But what it didn’t bring was surprise. None of us were surprised. We believe, deep down, that any man is capable of this. That any man of his stature could do this. That even a man who has presented himself as progressive, as a champion of women’s rights, is capable of this. It’s a belief born from lived experience. Each of us has suffered at the hands of men—or by the silence of the men we loved.
We’ve heard the whispered confessions of abuse from our girlfriends. We’ve watched our mothers endure. And though we may sometimes perform our disdain for men, asserting that we dislike or distrust them, the truth is far simpler and more terrifying: we are scared of them.
bell hooks criticizes feminists for not engaging with men, for letting their anger consume them and failing to see that men, too, are victims of patriarchy. And yes, there’s truth in that. But the question remains: are men truly interested in being engaged? Are they genuinely committed to bringing about meaningful changes in their behaviour and thinking?
What often goes unspoken is the toll this engagement takes on women—the harm inflicted on those who try to reach out to men who refuse to look inward, or worse, those who see the problem but are unwilling to work toward change. How many times must women exhaust themselves trying to bridge the divide, only to be met with resistance, dismissal, or indifference? I don’t think the women around me have that strength anymore. After enduring years of abuse, harassment, belittlement, invisibility, and abandonment, how much more can they give? How much more should they be asked to give?
Do we truly understand the devastation that comes from loving a man—whether it’s your father, brother, lover, or friend—and realizing that he cannot even acknowledge the suffering and pain he has inflicted on you? The pain of knowing that he can wreak havoc on your life, leave you shattered, and yet carry on as though nothing has happened. He continues to enjoy his life, pursue his ambitions, and relax in his private comforts. Or worse, he walks away, offering a hollow apology: “I’m sorry, you deserve better.”
But who is better? Are there men who genuinely want to be better? I doubt it. Because being better requires work, reflection, and accountability. It requires breaking free from the patriarchal cocoon that shields them and benefits them—even when they don’t actively perpetuate it. For most, it’s easier to stay wrapped in the comforts of that system, to look away, to do nothing. And we’re left wondering if “better” is just another illusion.
Don’t we get tired of walking alone? Of carrying the weight of everything on our own shoulders, only to be failed by men every single time we dare to love them? To confront the cruel truth that the first wound we ever received came from our fathers—a wound that never seems to heal. Isn’t it unbearable to cry ourselves to sleep night after night, to fear trusting anyone, to tiptoe through life as though walking on eggshells, always anticipating the next blow?
And then there’s that voice—relentless, cruel, and internal—that refuses to stop criticizing, blaming, and breaking us down. Does the wound of childhood ever heal? Or are we doomed to spend our lives in therapy, popping pills just to survive? What does it mean to live each day wishing it would end, but knowing it won’t? And yet, somehow, after all this suffering, women still find the heart to love men. Despite everything, we hold space for them, care for them, even forgive them. But why should it be our burden to bear? Why can’t men just work on themselves for once?
Why can’t men just work on themselves for once? Why can’t they confront their fears, their insecurities, and the power they wield so carelessly? Why can’t they take responsibility for the harm they cause—both intentionally and through their silence? It’s not enough to stand on the sidelines, claiming to be “one of the good ones,” while benefiting from the very systems that oppress and break us. If women, after enduring centuries of pain and betrayal, can still find the strength to unlearn the patriarchy we are born into, to build, to love, to forgive—then why can’t men summon even a fraction of that courage?
The truth is, change will only come when men stop waiting for women to carry the burden of their redemption. Let me say that again – change will only come when men stop waiting for women to carry the burden of their redemption. And again – change will only come when men stop waiting for women to carry the burden of their redemption.
When they stop leaning on us to hold the mirror to their flaws. Healing from patriarchy isn’t a gift women owe to men; it’s work they must undertake themselves. And until they do, the world they inhabit will remain half-built, full of silences, broken promises, and a love that never quite reaches its potential.
Anjali Chauhan is a feminist qualitative researcher, journalist and writer based in Delhi. She is currently pursuing a PhD in Political Science at the University of Delhi, focusing on neoliberalism and its impact on women garment workers in Delhi-NCR. Her writings explore intersections of gender, work, and state politics and have found spaces at various national and international platforms..
