Unbothered, or Spiritually Starved? What This Video Gets Wrong About Masculinity

There’s a video that’s been circulating recently, and it captures a particular kind of man with uncanny precision. You know the type. The posture is calm, the voice low, the expression vaguely amused. He gives the impression that nothing gets to him, that he’s seen too much to be moved, and that what you’re saying isn’t offensive so much as irrelevant.

In the clip, a woman asks a simple, sincere question. You can tell she’s not being cruel, and she’s not trying to catch him out. She’s curious, maybe even hopeful. She says, “If you want one woman in your heart, why not just choose her and be faithful?” She delivers it plainly, without drama. It’s the kind of question any woman of substance has asked at some point in her life. And his reply, at first, seems just as simple: “I’m just not wired that way.”

It’s an answer wrapped in coolness. Detached, but rehearsed. He doesn’t pause to consider it. He doesn’t ask her what she means. He doesn’t wonder aloud if his wiring might be the product of wounds or trauma or ego. He just places it before her like a closed box with a ‘do not open’ sign on top. This is who I am. Don’t question it. Don’t touch it.

But of course, she does question it. She tries to push gently against the surface of that answer, not with force, but with thoughtfulness. She asks about self-control, about discipline, about the difference between being led by your wiring and learning to lead yourself. She’s not being aggressive, just aware that words like “I’m not wired that way” often function as exit routes for accountability.

And that’s when it happens.

He insists he isn’t triggered, then calls her annoying. He insists he’s being honest, then begins posturing like a teenage boy being told to tidy his room. He throws out a dismissive “You’re annoying in this goody two shoes kind of way,” which would be laughable if it wasn’t so revealing. His mask slips. The chill evaporates. You’re left with something that looks a lot less like honesty and a lot more like fear.

Because here’s what’s actually frightening about this exchange: he believes he’s safe. He believes that because he’s calm, he’s clear. That because he says the words unapologetically, they must be true. That because he’s emotionally disengaged, he must be emotionally evolved.

It’s not just about the words, though. It’s about the entire framework of avoidance. He proudly states that he spent his twenties trying to “fix” himself. He believed something was wrong with him because he wanted multiple women. Then one day he decided there was nothing to fix. That this is who he is. And now, any suggestion that he might be responsible for the consequences of that choice is met with passive aggression, thinly veiled mockery, and a condescending smile.

He’s not emotionally neutral. He’s emotionally absent.

And what’s worse, he’s convinced himself that absence is virtue. That unchanging is the same as being grounded. That not moving is the same as standing firm. But that’s not masculinity. That’s inertia.

In Catholic teaching, masculinity isn’t a vague construct. It’s patterned on Christ. That doesn’t mean softness and sentimentality. It means discipline, responsibility, clarity of purpose, and the willingness to pour yourself out for another. It means learning to love not through dominance, or through disinterest, but through presence and service. It means sacrifice, fidelity, and strength rooted in the willingness to be shaped by something beyond yourself.

Real masculinity is about the hard, slow work of learning to lead with love. And love, by its very nature, demands change. It demands the death of ego, the relinquishing of convenience, the acknowledgement that your wiring isn’t the ceiling of your potential, but the floor you’re meant to rise from.

This man has mistaken resignation for peace. He’s stopped trying to fix himself, not because he’s healed, but because he’s given up. And he’s repackaged that apathy as self-acceptance.

It’s seductive, isn’t it? The idea that you can just declare who you are and opt out of further formation. That because you say something confidently, it becomes moral. That you can create your own reality with enough detachment and well-lit videos and neatly phrased captions. But Catholicism doesn’t allow for that kind of self-mythology. We’re not the authors of truth. We’re meant to conform to it. And that process, by design, is uncomfortable. It’s challenging. It’s disruptive. But it’s also what saves us.

When he says, “I’m going to walk out of here the same man,” he thinks he’s making a statement about integrity. But what he’s really describing is spiritual paralysis. Christ never left people the same. He healed, rebuked, embraced, and called. He met people where they were, but never left them there. He invited them into something harder, holier, and more whole.

That’s the true mark of strength: to be changed by love. To submit to growth. To acknowledge that who you are today may not be who you’re called to be tomorrow.

The man in this video isn’t evil. He’s ordinary. But that’s what makes it dangerous. Because women encounter men like this all the time — charming, calm, articulate, and incapable of being moved. They call it emotional regulation, but it’s really emotional evasion. They say they’re “just not wired that way,” but what they mean is, “I’ve decided not to care.”

And the scariest thing about men like this is how normal they seem. They’re not yelling. They’re not cheating. They’re not abusive in the traditional sense. But they gaslight you into feeling like your hope for intimacy is a kind of moral overreach. That your desire for monogamy is naive. That your longing for stability is oppressive. They’ll make you feel like asking for faithfulness is some outdated Victorian relic, rather than the bare minimum required for trust.

Women read those signals instantly. We see the clipped tone, the mockery, the carefully calculated “I’m fine, you’re the problem” stance. We don’t feel safe because the man can’t even tolerate a question. And when someone can’t be questioned, they’re not in control. They’re defensive. Which means they’re fragile.

It takes real strength to be questioned and remain soft. To say, “I don’t know, but I’m willing to learn.” To say, “That challenges me, but I want to understand why.” To say, “This makes me uncomfortable, but I trust you enough to stay in the room.” That’s masculinity rooted in Christ — not in pride or domination, but in service and humility. In a willingness to be shaped by truth, not shielded from it.

And truth, by the way, isn’t triggered by honesty. Truth listens. It contemplates. It tests itself. The man in this video doesn’t test himself anymore. He’s decided his way is the only way, and anyone who disagrees is labelled annoying, controlling, or righteous. But if your convictions collapse under gentle scrutiny, they were never convictions. They were excuses.

Ultimately, this is a man who’s decided to confuse autonomy with holiness. Who’s chosen stasis over sanctity. Who’s mistaken deflection for depth. And we’re being asked to celebrate that. To call it empowerment. To honour it as masculine freedom.

But freedom without truth isn’t freedom. It’s licence. And Christ didn’t die to give us more excuses. He died to give us grace. The kind that breaks us open and builds us anew.

So yes, he’ll leave the room the same man. But the question remains — what kind of man was that to begin with?

Video Credit: @lilaroseofficial