“Suck it up, buttercup.”

That’s one of the first things people say when a man like me admits something hurt.

Others come dressed as jokes:

“Poor you.”

Or disguised as logic:

“You don’t know what it’s like—you’re a big man.”

The message is always the same. Because I look solid, grounded, capable—

I must be immune.

Immune to fear.

Immune to harm.

Immune to trauma.

Big guys don’t get rattled.

Strong men don’t get shaken.

And if we do? We’re told to swallow it, laugh it off, or shut up.

So let me say this plainly, without apology:

I wasn’t immune. Not because I lacked strength— but because strength does not cancel vulnerability.

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I’ve lived most of my life in a body people read as sturdy and confident.

A body others assume can absorb anything—words, hands, pressure, expectation—without consequence.

When something happens, the response is predictable:

“Come on. You’re fine.”

“You could’ve handled it.”

“You don’t know what real fear is.”

As if fear checks your height and weight before entering your nervous system.

But the nervous system doesn’t care how you look. When boundaries are crossed, the body reacts. When autonomy is threatened, the body remembers.

When someone is cornered—physically or emotionally—the response is human, not symbolic.

Big bodies feel fear.

Strong bodies carry memory.

Calm people can still be shaken.

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Recently, I found myself in two situations where I had to protect myself.

Nothing dramatic enough for headlines.

Nothing violent enough to “count,” apparently.

No punches.

No retaliation.

Just calm release, clear boundaries, and leaving when space opened.

And still, I could already hear the commentary:

“That’s it?”

“Why are you even thinking about this?”

“Suck it up.”

But those moments reminded me of something important:

Self-protection does not have to mean harm.

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Because of that, I’ve decided to revisit Aikido—a defensive martial art rooted in redirection, balance, and disengagement.

Not to fight.

Not to dominate.

Not to prove anything to anyone.

But to stay practiced in protecting my center, creating space, and exiting safely when needed.

For me, that’s strength.

It aligns with my values:

• minimal force

• maximum dignity

• safety for everyone involved

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Here’s another thing people don’t expect:

I avoid violence at practically all costs.

Not because I’m incapable of it—

but because I don’t believe in it.

That choice often gets mocked too.

As softness.

As overthinking.

As weakness.

Even in small moments, it shows. I hate spiders. They give me the full-body heebie-jeebies. And still, I’ll catch one and put it outside rather than kill it—heart racing, skin crawling, doing it anyway.

That’s not fragility.

That’s restraint.

So when I talk about self-protection, I’m not talking about aggression.

I’m talking about maintaining boundaries without becoming someone I’m not.

Choosing restraint isn’t weakness.

It’s a value—one I carry even when it’s inconvenient or misunderstood.

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There’s a quieter harm that comes after moments like these.

After the event, after the adrenaline fades, society adds a second blow:

“Why are you still thinking about it?”

“Poor you.”

“Other people have it worse.”

That message can be more damaging than what happened.

It teaches silence.

It delays healing.

It tells men—especially big, calm, capable-looking ones—that having a reaction is a personal failure.

That’s not resilience.

That’s denial wearing a tough-guy costume.

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I’m not sharing this to accuse or dramatize. I’m sharing it because honesty creates room to breathe. For men who were told they should be immune. For people whose bodies didn’t match the pain they carried. For anyone who learned to minimize their own experience just to stay acceptable.

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Strength doesn’t mean invulnerability. It never did. Real strength is knowing when something crossed a line. Real strength is choosing protection over silence.

Real strength is saying—without shame:

“That affected me. And that matters.”

If this resonates, you’re not alone.

And you never needed to “suck it up” to be worthy of care.

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