You need people like me

Gender and identity deeply fascinate me—on a level that borders on passion..

The goal of this project, simply put, is to unite a divided and suffering people under a shared, humane identity—one shaped over time by a singular, collective vision—with the hope of improving the quality of life for everyone. It envisions an end to inequality through unity rooted in our shared humanity.

If that idea seems unfamiliar or far-fetched, then why do we so readily categorise ourselves into the boxes we've been conditioned to accept—race, gender, sexuality, religion? We claim individuality and uniqueness, yet we judge one another so quickly and often to the point of conflict.

From the moment we're born, we subconsciously absorb and adopt the identities we've been told define us—and we do so without question. These opposing identities often divide us and hold us back from realising our most fundamental, unifying identity: our shared humanity.

I don’t say this from a biased male perspective, as impossible as it may be to fully detach from that lens. I truly believe that as a people, we will never reach our full potential in unity until we address this glaring social issue in one of two ways.

We must either abandon the gendered biases that divide us or, if that's not possible, consciously embrace and confront the socially ingrained differences we’ve learned. These should be addressed openly, carefully, and with the compassion they deserve.

Every time a man does something disgusting, the first thing mentioned is his gender: “A man did this.” And honestly, I understand why—because it's usually true. But as a man, I don’t celebrate these things. In fact, I’m ashamed of them. I feel embarrassed to be associated with this “team” I never asked to join. But should I feel personally condemned because others have done wrong? We would never generalise about an entire race based on one person’s actions—so why do we do this with gender?

This isn’t a defence of men. It’s a critical reflection—a therapeutic, genuine concern for the safety and progress of humanity as a whole. We cannot transcend the limits of gender unless we begin to question what it even means to be "a man" or "a woman."

I have a penis, so I’m called a man. You have a vagina, so you’re a woman. How simple life could be if that were all that divided us. But whenever gender is discussed, the conversation inevitably veers into biology and identity politics. It becomes about proving who is “right,” rather than understanding each other.

The political left is often mocked as overly emotional or ashamed, yet it tends to be more aware of wrongdoing and open to change. The right is often seen as proud and traditional, sometimes blind to the harm that may come from preserving old systems. But here’s the problem: when pride in one’s gender becomes a defence mechanism, it can shield us from acknowledging real harm. A man does something horrible—so is all of manhood evil? Of course not. Just as a good man doesn’t redeem the bad, no one man defines what it means to be male.

Statistically, men perpetrate more physical violence and abuse against women than the reverse. So it’s understandable, even fair, that many women feel defensive or cautious. But as a man, I want to call out these patterns and help change them—not excuse them. I'm proud of who raised me: my father, mother, and sister. I don’t credit my qualities to being male. I credit the people who shaped me—regardless of gender.

My father is a traditional, hard-working soul. He was an ice cream man, a fruit seller, a chestnut vendor—jobs that sustained our family and that he now passes on to me. He taught me the importance of providing and loving unconditionally. He was also young once, fit and confident, and had his fair share of fun. Part of me resents that outlook. Part of me respects it. It was real life.

My mother, on the other hand, grew up in a household marked by violence. Her father beat her mother. That’s what she and her sister fell asleep to as children. Yet she rose above it, worked in the music industry, got her own place, and built an independent life. She and my father fell in love and raised a family—one they took pride in nurturing with love and responsibility.

In that union, however, came sacrifice. My mother gave up her career and independence to raise us. And though she would never trade us for the world, I sense there are parts of her past self she quietly mourns. My father continued his work while she stayed home. It was a functional exchange, but one that came at a personal cost.

We, their children, were raised with love—but also with an awareness of the world's imperfections. That grounding shaped us to value emotional connection more than material success. It's a privilege, I admit. But it was also made possible by my father’s relentless work and my mother’s selfless care.

Today, everything costs more—emotionally, financially, socially. The pressures have amplified, and survival has become a system of competition. We are taught to sexualise each other, to define our worth by what we own, what we wear, how we look. We’re trapped in a system that doesn’t care about us—and yet we continue to play the game.

Let’s stop casually sexualising each other. It reduces people to bodies in a world where scarcity turns want into taking. Let’s stop excusing our gender’s wrongdoings. Let’s stop running from shame and start transforming it. Let’s stop becoming copies of each other just to be accepted. It’s making us all the same—and I, a proudly unique stallion of a man, don't want a world of sameness.

Today’s social media feeds young men a fantasy: get rich, get ripped, get women. This only fuels the same system we claim to hate. A system issue has become a competition among people. And that breaks my heart.

Loneliness, especially in young men, is the symptom no one wants to talk about. If a man doesn’t fit the mold—if he isn’t strong, rich, or confident—he’s often left unsupported. Desperation follows. And in that vacuum, harmful ideologies—often from the far right—offer a false sense of belonging. It's a dangerous path, and one we've seen too many times.

We’ve normalised success as the only outcome worth striving for. If you win, you’re valuable. If you lose, you’re discarded. And when men feel discarded, they lash out. They are told by the system they must become something ideal to be loved—so when they don’t, they turn bitter. That’s not an excuse. It’s a warning.

I’m sick of the blame game. I'm tired of defending and attacking gender roles instead of attacking the system that created them. Humanity should be our priority. Love should be our focus. Biologically, we need each other to exist. And that interdependence is something to cherish, not exploit.

Don't let this system define you. Don’t lose yourself in its rules. Redefine what it means to be human—not man or woman. Human. Because at the end of the day, it only takes one spark to light an eternal flame.

I hope you understand what I’m trying to say. Whether you’re a man or a woman, I wrote this as me. And if you can see yourself in me, and I can see myself in you—then maybe, just maybe, we can become one.

When it comes to relationships, mediocrity simply doesn’t stimulate me. I could easily settle for someone with poor taste just for the sake of being in a relationship—but that makes no sense to me.

It seems obvious: you shouldn’t be with someone you don’t genuinely like. My dilemma, however, is that I rarely meet anyone I actually do like. I often find myself putting more energy than I should into finding a significant other, largely because I live the life of a working man, not a student. The hours I work and the goals I pursue leave me with very little free time. And while it’s not much, that little free time is incredibly precious to me—because it’s all I have, and I don’t know how much more of it I’ll get. Tomorrow isn’t promised.

I take full responsibility for my current situation. I didn’t take my education seriously, which I regret. But I’ve made the most of what’s been available to me, and I take pride in who I am and what I do. The problem is, I struggle to find anyone who values me for that. It makes me question my whole situation from an outside perspective. I drive a car. I’m getting my own apartment. I’m helping care for my aging father. I’m trying, in my own way, to make the world a better place. And yet, I can’t seem to find someone to share that with.

My last relationship was a wake-up call. She was physically perfect—beautiful and exactly my type—but our conversations fell flat. We’d watch an incredible film and have nothing to say about it afterward. There was a lack of depth and the inability to explore certain ideas together. I’m not claiming to be a genius—in fact, I’m fairly uneducated in a formal sense—but I’m eager to learn, to grow, and to build something meaningful. Toward the end, it felt like we had nothing in common outside of physical attraction, and that wasn’t enough to sustain us.

What I seek now is still physical attraction, but also intellectual connection and uniqueness. I like to think I’m a catch in my own right—ambitious, hard-working, and deeply committed to my values. What I want is someone likeminded. Not a passive partner with no opinions, but someone smart and grounded, someone who can challenge me, inspire me, and push me to try new things. I long for that connection, perhaps because I’ve seen it firsthand. My parents have always had a strong relationship. My dad came from a working-class background and worked tirelessly to support us. And even now, as he grows older, he continues to work—not for himself, but for the family he loves.

Now that I’ve taken on that role, I realise I don’t have anyone to do it for—no one to build a future with. If I’m being honest, this whole project—the work I do, the goals I chase—is rooted in my experience with suicidal thoughts. It serves as a motivator to improve the lives of others who are less fortunate. A life lived solely for personal, financial, or physical gain means nothing to me. At times, I genuinely feel like a terrible, unlovable person, and I carry that with me.

Outside of work, I’m aware I live in isolation. The “solution” might seem obvious: find community in the things I care about, and I’ll naturally meet likeminded people. That’s the plan. But some days, the will to live, to make that effort, gets harder and harder to summon. My motivation comes from helping my dad and laying the foundation for a future family—one I don’t yet have. Yes, I have regrets, but I’m trying to make the most of what I have now.

There’s a lot in the world that disgusts me. It’s hard to stay engaged when it feels like so many people walk through life blind to its problems. I need someone beside me to help me stay grounded—to help me stay sane. Without that, the work I do often feels hollow.

I’m aware that I come from the COVID generation. Isolation during that time shaped who I am, and when I failed to escape it through traditional education, I only became more withdrawn. I’ve tried to fill that void through social media—because it’s the easiest escape. Of course, that only made things worse. But strangely, it also led me to this project.

For the past five years, the world—through this screen—has been my classroom. I’ve studied trends, news, and pop culture religiously, because that’s what people care about. And I started to ask: what if we could tap into those same spaces where people’s attention already is, rather than repeating familiar words to those who are already willing to listen?

I want to bring meaningful conversations into places they’re usually absent, because that’s where people like me actually are. I care about sports and good music. You care about gaming and OnlyFans creators. She cares about makeup and reality TV. He cares about movies and animals. The point is, the conversations that truly matter often get drowned out by the noise of our everyday interests and distractions.

But what if we could reach into that world—meet people where they are—and plant the seeds of change there? That’s what I believe I can do. Because those who have the potential to create change are often unaware of it—until they’re shown how.

You need people like me.

SEEYOURSELF.