You know, I was a kid once. A little boy. Like most of us, I was loved for just being me, for existing in the world, for breathing in and out, for being a puppy who wagged his tail. And as a kid, that’s enough, right? That’s what you think life is. It’s like you’re always loved for simply showing up. The world loves you for the hell of it.
Then, the switch happens. It’s gradual, like a slow burn you don’t notice until your hair’s caught fire. You stop getting love just for being you. You start getting love because of what you can do. Or what you might become. It’s a cold realization, a slap that doesn’t leave a mark but hits you deep. Women love you for what you provide, not for just showing up anymore. I didn’t know this shit until I was way too deep in it, and by then, I was already playing the game wrong.
You think a girl’s gonna love you for being you? Maybe when you’re young and cute, maybe when you’ve got the “potential” in your eyes, the dream of becoming a rockstar or a doctor or some big shot with an office in a shiny building. They fall for the fantasy of who you’re gonna be. But when the reality of who you are hits, when you’re just a guy trying to make it, the game changes. It’s not about you anymore. It’s about what you can provide. What you bring to the table. And when you’ve given everything you can, when you’ve settled, when you’ve handed over your soul to keep the lights on, she’ll find someone else. She’ll find someone who’s worked harder on himself than you’ve worked on her. It’s like clockwork.
No one ever says, “Thanks for the rent, Dad.” They never thank you for making sure the hot water’s running, for the lights staying on, for the roof over their heads. No, they don’t give a damn about that. You’re supposed to do that. It’s expected. A man is only loved because of what he provides, not just for being there, not for who he is at his core.
That’s the lesson I learned. And I learned it hard.
I worked my ass off, busted my back for years, and built a house. The nicest house my wife or my family ever lived in. I paid for every damn thing, made sure they had everything they needed. I bought the land, laid down the foundation, picked out the floors. And when I asked her why she wouldn’t talk to me for weeks, she snapped. She, the stay-at-home mom I invested in, turned to me and said, “I don’t have to kiss your ass.” That shit stung, man. And the worst part? That shit trickled down to my kids. They grew up with a warped sense of values, honoring womanhood over manhood, respecting her above me. That’s what they were taught. And I paid for it.
Then my ex-wife and kids go to resorts, take vacations, throw gifts at their mom, and somehow, I’m the afterthought. On Father’s Day, I got a text. A goddamn text. After everything I put into them, I got a Happy Father’s Day text and a bottle of BBQ sauce.
It’s cold, man. I’ll tell you this much: life is cold as a motherfucker. I learned that from my grandmother when she said, “A broke man is like a broke hand—can’t do nothing with it.” You don’t hear a woman say, “We got closer after he got laid off.” Hell, no. You never hear that. A man is only as good as what he provides. If he stops providing, he stops being needed. And that’s the hard truth they don’t tell you when you’re young and full of dreams.
I’m not bitter, though. Well, I am, but not just at them. At myself too. I was fooled. I was taught to be this provider, this doer, this man who keeps everything running—without realizing that the love I was looking for wasn’t about me anymore. It was about what I could provide, what I could give.
You want to know what they don’t tell you when you’re a boy? You don’t get to just be you. You’re only worth what you can give. And if you stop giving, if you can’t keep up, you’re out. That’s the game. And nobody’s handing you a damn trophy for playing it well.
That’s the thing about being a man—you don’t get love for just being you. You get love for what you provide.
