For years, masculinity taught me to bury what happened to me. Healing began when I stopped mistaking silence for strength and made room for vulnerability, truth and connection.

Trigger warning: This op-ed contains firsthand descriptions of abuse.

Roughly one in six men in the United States experience sexual abuse before age 18, yet many never disclose their abuse because of stigma and rigid expectations about masculinity.

As a survivor, I learned early that being a boy, and later a man, meant burying fear, sadness and vulnerability. My silence equated with strength, control and survival—a lesson reinforced by male role models and peers.

Let’s face it, most sexual violence is committed by men, but women and girls are not its only victims. Men and boys experience sexual violence, too. Although it’s not talked about as much, we are survivors too. 

So, let’s talk about it—to heal ourselves and help others.

The cost of my silence accumulated over time, giving way to worsening anxiety and depression and a deep disconnection from my body, my emotions and other people.

When I think back on the two instances of sexual abuse I experienced as a child, what stands out most is confusion. I did not fully understand whether what had happened was wrong, and I don’t recollect strong emotions tied to those experiences. Even now, I sometimes expect to feel anger, resentment or sadness—but I don’t. I often wonder if that is normal and whether others have felt the same way.

My experiences did not match the stories and stereotypes I had been told about victimhood. Victims of sexual abuse were supposed to be girls. They were supposed to be weak and vulnerable. They were supposed to cry, to be afraid and to be visibly broken. These are the messages and reductive tropes we get in society. 

Yet, that was not my story, and I am not alone. I was a 6-year-old boy, and later a man. Like so many of us, there were no visible bruises. None that someone we could trust would detect.

Because the scenarios that I understood as abuse did not apply to me, what remained instead was confusion. The experiences felt random and disorienting: One involved an older boy, likely a teenager, and the other involved two or three boys slightly older than me. After each instance, I buried it and didn’t look back. I did not tell my parents at the time. Even now, this is new for me.

Masculinity, as I understood it, gave me no language for what I had experienced. Abuse was something men did, not something that happened to them. That left no place for someone like me—someone who had been hurt, someone who had been violated. While I have not felt strong emotions directly tied to the abuse, I often wonder whether it contributed to the substance use disorder I later developed. 

Domestic violence and bullying (read about my experience, and so many Americans’, in a forthcoming Ms. piece) are also parts of my story.

My substance use disorder began as a teenager; I first found relief in alcohol. The cost of my silence accumulated over time, giving way to worsening anxiety and depression and a deep disconnection from my body, my emotions and other people. Substances made me feel safe, seen and whole—at least briefly. But that relief was fleeting and never what I truly needed.

Eventually, a moment of clarity gave me a choice: Live differently or die. I chose life.

… Healing required not becoming ‘less of a man,’ but redefining what being a man could mean.

Now, in recovery, I am finally able to examine my past and begin to heal. Healing from trauma is like peeling an onion—layer by layer, deeper experiences and emotions emerge, revealing only what I am ready to face, in its own time. Through years of self-reflection grounded in spirituality, I have peeled back many of these layers, allowing my mind, body and spirit to align. 

As my recovery deepened, I came to understand that disclosing the sexual abuse I endured—something I had never shared—first with a few close friends was essential to finding closure from the trauma of my childhood. While it didn’t feel as if a heavy burden was lifted when I came forward, I no longer had secrets to bear. 

My journey has given me a unique opportunity to help others while continuing to heal myself. I believe I am meant to use my lived experience as a tool for good in the world. I’ve learned that many boys and men carry similar stories, often in isolation, often convinced that no one would believe them or care. Masculinity did not protect me; it protected the silence around abuse. And I learned that healing required not becoming “less of a man,” but redefining what being a man could mean.

Creating a Culture Where Men Can Heal

Supporting male survivors of sexual abuse requires confronting the cultural narratives that keep them silent.

First, we must expand our understanding of who can be a victim. Sexual abuse is not defined by gender, strength or sexual orientation. Public education campaigns through personal storytelling can humanize and bring awareness to this important issue—acknowledging that men too experience sexual abuse. Survivor resources must explicitly include men—not as an afterthought but as a visible and legitimate group of survivors.

Second, we must change how boys are taught to understand emotions. Teaching boys that sadness, fear and vulnerability are normal human experiences—not weaknesses—creates a foundation for disclosure and help-seeking later in life. This means parents, educators and mentors modeling emotional literacy and responding to vulnerability with respect rather than ridicule.

Third, services for survivors must be accessible and male-affirming. Many men avoid seeking help because support spaces feel implicitly or explicitly designed for women. Therapists, hotlines and survivor groups should communicate clearly that men are welcome, believed and supported. Clinicians should be trained to recognize how trauma may present differently in men—often through anger rather than vulnerable emotions and substance use.

Fourth, we must challenge violent masculinity without shaming men. Violent masculinity is not an inherent flaw in men; it is a learned system that restricts emotional expression and equates worth with dominance and control. Addressing it requires offering alternatives, not condemnation. Strength can mean asking for help. Courage can mean telling the truth. Resilience can mean healing, not enduring.

Finally, we must listen to male survivors when they speak. Belief is not passive—it is an action. It means taking disclosures seriously, respecting boundaries and allowing survivors to define their own healing process. It means resisting the urge to compare pain or rank suffering. Trauma is not a competition.

I share my story in the hope that a boy or man who recognizes himself in it finds the courage to speak and begin his own healing. Masculinity does not have to be a barrier to healing; it can be reshaped to include compassion, accountability and emotional honesty. Speaking out did not make me weaker—it made me more whole. And if my story helps one person realize he is not alone, that what happened to him matters and that healing is possible, then breaking the silence was worth it.

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A note from Ms. editors: We want to hear from you for The Majority, a new campaign collecting stories about how reproductive freedom has enabled readers to build the lives they want and need. Poll after poll shows a majority of Americans support reproductive healthcare access. Yet public debate overlooks the lives shaped by abortion access, contraception, IVF, miscarriage care, maternal healthcare or comprehensive sex education—countless women who chose to pursue an education, have children, not have children, protect their health and chart their own future. Add your voice and complete the sentence: “Access to reproductive choices gave me the freedom to….” Together, these stories will help show not only why reproductive freedom remains a majority value, but also what it makes possible.