The Man in the Road - my story, and the factors conditioning men to live small

This is a very personal sharing about my story, how I went from being a shy, playful little village boy, to learning to disappear, to breaking down, to fighting his way back to becoming a man willing to stand in the middle of the road, calm, present, and unflinching, even when others disapproved.

It's been hard to write, but I guess embarrassment is the price of entry.

For those willing to give the time to read it, I hope there is some inspiration in there, especially if you are someone feeling a little disconnected, anxious, burnout, lost or lonely as a leader or in your personal life.

It’s some of my story, a story about leadership, particularly self-leadership, and the long winding journey to guiding myself back home with some much needed support.

My Story

I grew up in a small village in the Brecon Beacons, now returned to its proper Welsh name Bannau Brycheiniog National Park, in South Wales, UK. In our case, think lower middle class, with a quiet and beautiful countryside backdrop. Isolated, but charming in its own way. I enjoyed my childhood, I was fortunate in many ways, my parents were loving and instilled a strong work ethic.

As a kid, I was shy, timid, playful, and deeply curious. I wanted to understand everything. I asked a lot of questions, A LOT. I explored, got distracted easily judging by old school reports, hid behind my mum’s legs when meeting strangers etc.

Something wasn’t quite right. In retrospect I was quite nervous, watchful, self-monitoring before I even had words for it.

There was a sense I never quite felt enough, but again before I had words for it. I didn’t trust my own judgment, and neither did my father.

There’s a moment that sums this up. I was once asked to trim the Jasmine creepers around the facia of the house, with explicit instruction NOT TO GO NEAR THE POWER CABLE. Naturally, I sliced straight through that beauty like butter with my secateurs. A live power line while standing on top of a tall ladder. When my dad ran out the sparks were still gracefully falling from the sky like a cascade around me as he saw what I’d done, he just gasped, “How are you still alive?”. I wasn’t reckless. I was disconnected from my own sense of consequence and self-trust.

At school, I was sometimes bullied for my curly hair. Other times challenged for trying to walk with the “cool” group with the occasional punch or squaring up in school corridors completely unprovoked. I learned quickly how fragile belonging was.

So I adapted.

I became a people-pleaser, a skillful one I might add. I exaggerated stories (albeit less skillfully in that case), I tried to be funny, I learned how to charm, distract, smooth things over. Looking back, I don’t see that as weakness so much, more protection. A nervous system doing what it needed to survive socially.

There was a lot of pent up restless energy. I learned to channel this into learning, instruments, gaming, pranking around the town, working out, reading physics and magic trick books, football, dabbling in martial arts. I loved effort, didn’t love conflict and avoided fights. I ran away when things escalated, literally or figuratively. Only stepping in if a good friend or stranger was in real danger and I felt I could help.

Later, some of that same pattern showed up in intimacy. I became overly timid, unsure and distinctly lacking confidence.

I wasn’t diagnosed with ADHD or anything like that although perhaps I would’ve met the criteria. I was mischievous, distracted, and immature compared to others, especially the girls in my class. They seemed composed, organised, ready for the world. School felt like a playground to me. That came back to bite me at university, but before leaving my parents decided to split-up which felt upsetting and destabilising. I didn't have a great deal of time to process what it all meant before one month later hopping on the train to university itself.

When I kicked-off my time at the redbrick University of Bristol to study physics, I realised I had no idea how to truly study hard. Friends who’d gone to private school smashed it. I struggled through, not because I was stupid (despite any fair reasoned judgements after hearing my cable cutting antics), I just wasn’t ready. I just couldn’t compete on many levels and, to a degree, fit in easily either.

Neither during my upbringing nor in High School did they teach about how to process emotions, know your self-worth or how to express yourself without needing external validation. There was no manual for how to handle yourself under pressure. As a boy, on a few occasions I would aggravate a friend without realising it, and on two occasions got punched in the jaw. Deservedly, I suspect. I didn’t know how to hold my ground without provoking or withdrawing. That said, during university I did manage to meet some new friends, good friends still to this day.

At home, things were complicated.

My mother downsized and lived with my sister, she was (and still is) warm, kind, compassionate. A former teacher and careers advisor who was always emotionally available. She struggled historically with money and self-esteem, partly due to regular put-downs from my father which I'm sure he would admit to, who was only repeating patterns from his own upbringing.

My father was a world-leading cave diving explorer. Brave. Focused. Driven. But he had picked up his own fair share of deep and painful scars. I recall spending an evening with him and his best friend when 13 years old, who helped to install that 'man stranded on a desert island' screensaver if anyone remembers that. The next day, I was picking up the phone to the sound of dad in tears, repeatedly asking me to pass the phone to mum. That day his best friend Pete had drowned right in front of him, and I can still hear the pain in his voice today, That was one of several that would occur as the years went by. His sister, my auntie, suddenly passed away from pancreatic cancer within months, which he then shielded me from seeing in her final days to my sad disappointment. I'm sure it was for my own good, but it was hard to accept and process, as I wanted to say goodbye. My father was emotionally unavailable and not quite as present as I grew older in those teenage years. He had a temper, and hit me a few times as a boy and teenager. Whilst this is of course not acceptable today, I don’t judge him for that as that’s exactly how his parents brought him up (in fact he had it much worse). He once chased me through the house, and down our long garden for mildly misbehaving, and I had to leap over a bush into a country road to escape. I laughed about it back then. Looking back, I don’t think any of this should be accepted as normal.

What it did do was teach me fear. And fear made me armour up. I found the gym, and with it strength and size. At 16, I was no longer controllable. I could calmly stand my ground and he knew and felt that. The balance of power had rebalanced somewhat.

Despite what I’ve just said, it is more important to note that my father had many more positive qualities that surpassed this and guided me too, that I'd want us to focus on. He pushed my sister and I ‘to be the best in the world’, and to work really hard to compete with the rest of the world. My mother used to supplement (or should I say… counter) that by saying ‘be the best YOU can be’. He was a very high bar to compare ourselves too, a source of not feeling ‘enough’ no doubt.. He tried to motivate through external rewards. £1000 if I reached Grade 8 piano - FAILED, £1000 if I didn’t smoke by 18 - FAILED. It didn’t work for me, but worked for my sister. I was always much more intrinsically motivated, I did what I wanted. I quit piano at a low level Grade 6 when 16, then returned almost 20 years later on my own terms and achieved Grade 8 Distinction, paid for by myself.

But he taught me something else, something far more powerful and meaningful, without words.

One day in a local town Abergavenny, we were walking down the pavement together and saw an elderly woman at a distance waiting to cross for what seemed like forever. No cars were stopping, and she still stood politely as she propped up her mobility shopping case next to her. Unannounced and seemingly out of nowhere, my father calmly stepped straight into the busy road, raised his hand to the oncoming car who did need to apply emergency brakes, and unashamedly stopped the traffic. He just stood still, completely unreactive, as he helped escort her across while a man in the stationary car gestured, swore and beeped angrily, then proceeded to walk back and join me. The old lady waved and said thank you from the other side. We never discussed it.

That moment stayed with me.

Do the right thing. Even if people judge you.

That was leadership expression, with integrity.

I rejected parts of myself growing up. The fighter. The assertive masculine side. It didn’t feel safe with my father or my peers. I doubted my worth, which projected into everything.

I recall climbing a tree with a good friend in my teenage years, and slipping and falling 15-20 feet onto my back into a muddy field. At first I couldn't get up, and became petrified, thinking the worst. But managed to hobble up, with immense back pain which my friend asked me to hide when we returned to his grand parents house we were staying at. It was excruciating, and the lower back pains continue to this day. To add to that classic boyhood macho 'don't show weakness' theme, a year or two later I was playing football and holding my back as it was like shooting dagger pains as I jogged around and a friend just shouted at me 'Don't be a P@$y!!'. I was riled by that lack of support, care or sympathy and replied: 'I wish you had it for a second so you knew the pain', I didn't mean it maliciously and more just to angrily express that I wanted some empathy, to walk in my shoes. He was much bigger than I was, an alpha you might say (a great guy for that matter!), and after a briefly threatening confrontation from him in response I just went silent, which was my coping strategy for that moving forwards.

Attraction followed the same pattern. I had some luck with women, despite my shyness, but I repeatedly found myself in relationships with partners who had low self-esteem. I didn’t know how to spot it because I hadn’t faced it within myself.

Relationships became volatile, toxic, emotionally damaging. More than one partner threatened to take their life. I confess, and not for the sake of dramatised vulnerability, attention or otherwise that I did suffer some physical domestic abuse, narcissistic and coercive control and certainly picked up my fair share of emotional scars back then. My nervous system was on fire for years. Panic attacks, an anxiety disorder, relentless performance anxiety, tension in my body, difficulty focusing etc. I suffered from burnout in work, digestive issues, so many things building up.

I never became suicidal, but I worried daily that I might get there if things didn’t change. I found it hard to open up about this although I managed to tell a GP at the time. It was something.

At 21, I broke.

Walking up Park Street in Bristol, I finally accepted I didn’t know how to escape this low feeling after trying so hard for so long, and decided to call my father about it for the first time. As the call was connecting, I felt a flood of tears and just said, “Dad, I’m…. I’m just so fed up.” I couldn’t even finish the sentence. In truth, typing this is bringing back some tears. It was the darkest, loneliest and scariest period of my life so far. Even my closest friends don’t know a lot of the detail.

To my father’s credit, he drove up almost straight away and suggested we talk about it over a pint. That was his language, and it helped. Listening, whilst giving practical advice and his usual bold encouragement - “Come on, you can do it”. I was back running and exercising the next day.

My mum helped incredibly in a different way. We had calm, honest, walks and talks. She was great at listening, gave me suggestions like hot baths to calm those bad days of nerves, encouraged a visit to the Doctors and provided constant meaningful support. I needed that.

I graduated in 2008 during the financial crisis. There was barely any jobs in the market, the degree felt useless. I fell into IT, worked very hard, too hard perhaps. I was promoted five times in quick succession in my first company, from B2B tech sales to programme manager, but emotionally I was a little reactive at times, certainly defensive under pressure. I wanted to impress, to learn, to accomplish, and needed to be seen as capable. The Directors and SLT knew I got the job done, and went above and beyond what most would, it was in my character and was clearly noticed. I recall a government tender the company really wanted to complete but didn’t have either the team nor the time to get it done by the deadline COB the next day. I asked for all the related folders to be dropped on my desk at 5PM, and pulled a 36 hour shift without breaks all alone in the office with A3 paper scattered across the floor, covered in felt tip marks as I methodically designed and planned a rural and city WiFi rollout. I got it delivered by the deadline the next day, a tender that we went on to win. I think I was a handful to those above me back then, but they tolerated and channeled that which I’m very eternally grateful for.

In those early to mid twenties, I poured energy into everything, much like school seen as a playground, this was an adult playground. Gym, learning to DJ, shelf help, triathlon training, partying, hard, often destructively. My social anxiety was brutal, but as we learnt earlier I hid it well. I went one step further though as my 20s played out, I started to withdraw for some of the reasons already mentioned, but also through a desire for mastery, practising classical guitar, poker or snooker alone for an insane number of hours on end. I got quite good, honed the craft, but felt rejected from certain friendship groups, unworthy. Very alone. Not helped by my first love relationship ending, and her going off with my then best friend, that hurt deeply.

Eventually, I accepted I needed help. I kept getting dragged back into severe anxiety.

Counselling in my mid-20s helped with relationship trauma, alongside CBT which was powerful in breaking thinking and behavioural patterns. But meditation saved me, and possibly my life.

I trained at a Buddhist centre in Cardiff once or twice a week, then meditated daily for many years. Starting with Indian meditations and moving to Zen just sitting, missing only the odd day or two. Thousands of hours, silent retreats. Sitting on that zafu with all that pain and suffering, it sometimes felt like sheer terror. And yet flickers of light and hope when stumbling on calm in the beginning, before learning to be brave, surrender and fully let go. No more resistance. I faced my own mind head-on. I recall the anxiety eased significantly within 3 weeks, I was able to breath in the present moment again for the first time in several years. Within a year or so I had reduced the severity of the anxiety by at least 75% if not more, but that residual amount wasn’t going to be shifted by practicing mindfulness and being the silent watcher alone.

It was much deeper. I realised the next layer was self-esteem, the next onion layer of my sense of purpose to be explored and dissolved.

That took another decade, and a ton of equally challenging deep inner work.

It wasn’t until my thirties that, through responsibility, rejection, honesty, and relentless self-work, I learned to accept myself. To love myself. To be radically honest. To ask for help. To stay when things got hard, that’s something I’ve always had - Grit (PS - great book worth reading by the way, by Angela Duckworth).

That path led me to an incredible, kind, peaceful and supportive partner today, a sense of meaningful work, grounded appreciation and joy.

A friend said recently he would summarise it as becoming “well integrated”. I’m not sure of the extent of that, but I like the sound of it, and would like to think there is some truth there. Always a work in progress like everyone.

I became a Principal Consultant leading a team of amazing and very capable consultants for a BAE company, followed by a move to London to pursue a leadership coaching mission: helping modern male leaders express themselves with integrity, build trust, and stop hiding so they can have maximum healthy impact in the world.

I’m still learning. In work, in relationships, in small acts, even exploring silly little things like growing my hair out because I just fancied it, getting my first small-ish tattoo, a Japanese Zen Enso (Google it, it’s very on brand) in the celebrity tattooist Mark Mahoney's in Beverly Hills to celebrate, at 33?! Not as decoration, but as a reminder of my journey towards self-expression without inhibition, presence, self-belief and as a manifestation of my own self-acceptance (as such things I’d never have braved doing in my early years for fear of judgement or ridicule).

What’s this story REALLY about…

My story isn’t so unique. It’s a case study in how men learn to suppress themselves and risk living a life that is small, on how they unconsciously become disconnected from themselves and ways you can return back. In my case, once hitting rock bottom.

We’ve covered it all, family dynamics, absent or emotionally constrained fathers, over-responsibilised mothers, social stigmas, peer group pressure or policing, class expectations (work hard), differing developmental rates of boys compared to girls, schooling that rewards compliance, cultures that punish male vulnerability without giving an alternative. As an aside, for more on the structural issues that underpin much of the plights of men and boys today, I strongly recommend the book ‘Of Boys and Men’ by Rich Reeves.

By the time men reach leadership, they’re not blank slates. They’re already trained in what expression costs.

They don’t disappear because they lack courage, they disappear because they learned it was safer and convinced themselves its not necessary.

Becoming the Man Stood in the Road

The cleanest symbol in my whole story isn’t a breakdown or a triumph. It’s a man calmly stepping into the road. Not fighting, not fleeing, just unapologetically standing there without flinching.

Hand raised, palm open. Moral authority without aggression. “I don’t dominate. or disappear, I stand.”

That’s what daring leadership and authentic self-expression with integrity really is, and that’s the work I’m committed to.

Not helping men become louder, helping them become truer, because I believe we need that in the room more than ever today. Ethical, brave, decision makers who live true to themselves as clichéd as it may sound.

Not teaching confidence, but instead coaching grounded relational presence under pressure, because the world doesn’t need more men performing strength and armouring up. The world needs more men, more leaders, who can stand, calmly, and express themselves with integrity when it matters most. To help them learn to close what I call the expression gap.

Leaders willing to stand in the road when it matters. Would you?

And that’s a skill we can learn, even if we were never taught it as boys.