"I felt like I was constantly being told men 'had our time'." Photo / 123RF
CONTENT WARNING: This article contains references to mental health issues and suicidal thoughts.
Research shows 61% of young men in the UK regularly engage with masculinity influencers online. Will Adolphy was one of them. He talks about how he was drawn in, what happened next and why he chose a new path.
“Women are submissive, men must be dominant. Prove yourself through physical exertion and grit. Don’t be weak, don’t be a ‘little b****’.” These are the kind of messages I was fed – while hiding from the outside world alone in my room – when I was sucked into the toxic online world of male influencers, or the “manosphere” as it’s now known. I now see it was like a kind of brain washing, I had a ‘masculinity map’ to follow. The rules were: get big and muscular, earn decent cash and attract “high value” (good-looking) women. Achieving these things would make me a “real man”.
It’s this kind of disturbing, rigid masculinity, and the online radicalisation of boys and young men, that was so powerfully brought to life in the Netflix series Adolescence. The Prime Minister said the show “shone a light on misogyny”, and new research from the men’s mental health charity Movember showed that six in 10 young men are now engaging with the harmful ideologies these toxic influencers promote. That statistic saddens me, but doesn’t surprise me. I was one of them.
Unlike Jamie, the 13-year-old central character, I never (thank God) dreamed of hurting anyone. But was I wary of women and convinced feminists were hiding on every corner out to get me? Hell yes.
How I got pulled into this murky way of thinking isn’t immediately obvious, and it’s taken years of work on myself to undo the damage. My Surrey childhood was relatively “normal”. Dad was a company managing director who paid the school fees while Mum stayed at home to raise us three children. I loved football, but also did ballet (a less ‘masculine’ activity) so was bullied. I felt ugly about my body and my spots and I was anxious by nature.
I always fancied girls, yet I was terrified of intimacy and stayed in the self-imposed “friend zone” with them, where I felt safe. At 17, my parents split up, and (in my eyes at least) Dad became distant. In hindsight I see how the masculinity influencer I became obsessed with became like a father figure. (And no, I won’t name him, but it wasn’t anyone as overtly misogynistic as Andrew Tate.)
I started out looking online for gym tips (building muscles, I’d learnt, resulted in compliments for this kid who’d always felt ugly).
Like many confused teenagers, I retreated into video games; Call of Duty replaced real friendships. I began over-relying on drugs, alcohol, social media and porn. Masturbation was less frightening than intimacy. I started out looking online for gym tips (building muscles, I’d learnt, resulted in compliments for this kid who’d always felt ugly). But from testosterone-pumping exercise advice, the influencers perfidiously sneak into your algorithm, mixed up with funny pranks and other content boys are naturally drawn to. You don’t go looking for it, it comes to you. And then once you’ve shown interest, it’s forever woven into your feed. Soon, you’re being fed the video clips other fans have made from the original influencer’s… so there’s an endless loop.
At university, because I’d started having panic attacks, I’d often avoid going out, instead spending hours online, isolated, with a cacophony of male influencers for company, their voices in my head. I started following “pick-up artist” content, which essentially offered advice on “getting with girls”. That’s the term. “Who can I get with tonight?” I’d think.
Women were routinely objectified by these men. And I’d absorb that attitude. On meeting any woman, I’d instinctively think “would I?” Meaning, would I have sex with her. Part of the “prize” of getting lucky would be to “show her off to my mates”. Seeking validation from other guys was the aim.
Meanwhile, anti-men rhetoric seemed to be everywhere in the real world, whether at the pub or in the news. I felt like I was constantly being told men “had our time”. We need to wake up and see our male privilege. But as a 21-year-old man struggling to pay my rent after uni, I didn’t feel at all privileged. I felt threatened, confused.
I retreated further and further into the online world which seemed more reassuring. These high-profile men didn’t seem feminist-hating nutters, they came across as intelligent, educated and knowledgeable. Some content was deliberately provocative, though. Feminists were compared to Nazis: “DESTROY the feminazis” was the rhetoric. I started telling my friends things like the gender pay gap was a joke (because don’t women go off to have babies?). There was dismissiveness and mockery towards feminists, women and minority groups.
You start believing the world is stacked against men. You don’t listen to logical reasoning. I became so obsessed, even my friends said “give it a rest Will”, but these were views I never spouted in front of my mum or sister. This brainwashing encouraged anger and resentment at the world. The argument was that attitude was justified because men were being rejected by society. Men had to fight back and “pull yourself up and be a man”.
I believed everything they said was true. Looking back, it’s easy to see how things could have got much darker for me, had I not escaped. I fell out with friends, and even though I was delighted to get my first girlfriend aged 24, the relationship was always going to be doomed when I refused to empathise with her, about her own experiences of being a woman. I shut her down.
As a 21-year-old man struggling to pay my rent after uni, I didn’t feel at all privileged. I felt threatened, confused.
In hindsight, I realise I was seeking a woman to mother me, to soothe my loneliness and make me feel better about myself. I was putting on the facade that I was taking care of her, when really, I was hoping she’d take care of me. It’s a kind of paradox.
Something I now teach other men is that you have to think critically about whose views you’re absorbing and what their motivations might be. At the time I just accepted their facts as gospel.
After graduating with a drama degree, I ran a theatre company studio, a space for creatives to connect. Unfortunately, when that didn’t work out, I fell apart. I felt a failure as I didn’t think anything else but earning money mattered. A mental health breakdown left me suicidal at 26. I remember dropping my brother at the station and telling him I was afraid of what I might do. For two weeks even things like opening the fridge and feeding myself felt impossible, it was like I ceased to function. My brother, the Samaritans and antidepressants saved me. But reaching rock bottom ultimately made me get the help I desperately needed.
At this point I realised how deluded I’d been. I saw how I’d unknowingly devalued the women I was dating, from a place of deep insecurity. If they didn’t match the version of “success” I’d internalised, I saw that as a reflection on me. I expressed that through belittling comments or subtle digs disguised as jokes. I saw how I had gaslighted women.
I had a lot of therapy, and I joined a support group to help overcome my toxic habits (porn, social media and alcohol, mostly). There I made real friendships, including with people who I’d have mocked before. Seeing the world from other viewpoints and learning empathy was key. Learning to put the phone and laptop down, and start living in the real world.
I started my training as a psychotherapist five years ago, wanting to use everything I’d learnt myself to help other lost young men. I’ve spent the past two years going into schools talking to teachers, parents and boys about “the manosphere”. I’ve been to Downing Street twice, talking about the Government’s men’s mental health strategy, and how best to equip young men for the modern world, and I’ve written a book: Beyond the manosphere: Why I took the red pill and how I broke free. I really hope the book will show boys that building resilience is more important than being muscly. It’s scary to open up about my life publicly, but I know it’s important for people to see how this happens.
At 31, I’ve now got meaning and purpose in my life. I’ve rekindled my relationship with my parents, and although I’m single now, one day I’d love to have a family of my own. I hope I can raise a strong daughter and a secure son, and the world my own children might live in will have no place for violent misogyny. – As told to Susanna Galton
Cultural anthropologist Saul Parker is co-founder of The Good Side, the insights studio that led research into the manosphere for the Movember report. He spent two years speaking to young men. Here are his tips for spotting if someone you love might be getting pulled in and how to approach it.
The first signs might be a sharper edge to the way a young man talks about women, relationships, or society in general – an undercurrent of bitterness or blame. He might start quoting online personalities or dropping terms like “high value” or “beta males”. These changes in language often reflect the start of deeper engagement with manosphere content.
When someone’s already feeling unheard or sidelined, a direct confrontation often backfires. Instead, I’d recommend curiosity: “Where did you first come across that?” or “What is it about him that resonates with you?” You’ll learn more, and crucially, you’ll avoid confirming the narrative that everyone’s out to silence men.
The appeal of the manosphere isn’t just about extreme views – it’s often about identity, belonging and purpose. Manosphere content can offer structure, certainty and a sense of brotherhood. If you can understand what emotional or social need it’s meeting, you’ll be better placed to respond with empathy, not alarm, and help him find other ways to meet those needs.
Sometimes the most powerful thing isn’t what you say, but how you show up. Be steady. Be calm. Don’t take the bait. A mate who checks in, a brother who sticks around, a parent who listens without sarcasm – these are the people who cut through the noise and remind him he’s got real-world connections that matter.
Often for people caught up in harmful online content, the biggest challenge is being able to apply critical thinking (especially with younger people). Sometimes you can sow a seed of doubt that brings a house of cards to the ground. Help him take a step back and assess what he’s absorbing. Ask: “What about this guy makes you think he’s got the answers?” and “Have you fact-checked what you’ve been hearing about?”
This isn’t something you fix in one conversation, and it’s unlikely you’ll be catching him at the start of his journey through this content. What I’ve found is that keeping the door open through small but consistent moments of trust is what makes the biggest impact. A quiet “How are you doing?” now and then can land better than a passionate takedown ever could.
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