3. Misunderstood, Misrepresented, and Still Here

Sometimes the most damaging part of a conflict isn’t what happened — it’s the story that gets told about it. Here’s what I’ve learned from living with a version of me I didn’t recognise.

Over the past four years, I’ve talked to and listened to many men. A common thread keeps appearing, a dissonance between the facts and the narrative. And it’s not always malicious. Often, it’s subtle. Quiet. It slips in under the radar, on both sides.

Humans aren’t naturally wired for clarity. We’re wired for survival. We catastrophise. We assume the worst. It served us well when danger lurked in the shadows, but in relationships, it twists reality. It makes us look at a partner, or ourselves, and see an enemy instead of a person, one who is in pain.

This mismatch gets worse when stories are crafted not just from fear, but from the need to justify. To friends. To family. To the courts. To social workers. And, maybe most painfully, to ourselves. Because sometimes, facing the real story means facing our own part in it. Or sitting in a truth that doesn't make us look like the hero or the victim. So the version that gets told is tidied up, repackaged, and told again and again until it becomes the truth, even when it isn’t.

I’ve heard from countless men whose lives have been turned upside down by accusations of abuse or instability. Stories built on a grain of truth, yes, but exaggerated into something unrecognisable. Let me be clear: I’m not talking about the real cases where these things are happening. I’m talking about the ones where the story and the reality are dangerously far apart.

I’ve experienced it myself, not from a partner, but from my son. He created a narrative about me that carried just enough truth to be convincing, but far more fiction than fact. His version has shaped the way others in our family see me. The damage has been deep. I curated sixteen letters from people who have known us for years, none of whom saw even a glimmer of what he described. Child Services investigated. They found nothing. I have physical evidence that disproves key parts of his story. And still, some people hesitate. The story lingers. The damage lingers.

And this is where I often find other men stuck too. Trying to make sense of stories that don't line up.
"Well, she’s all happy now. All loved up."
"It’s easy for her, she just walked away like none of it mattered."

But the truth is… that’s not the truth.

---

So what can men do with this?

They can use it.

They can take these accusations, these distortions, the stories that don’t match the truth, and turn them into a mirror. Not to punish themselves, but to examine themselves.

That’s what I did.

At first, I believed the worst. I genuinely thought I must be a terrible person. The kind who didn’t deserve to be around his family. I let the accusations crawl inside me and take root. They didn’t cause my instability, but they poured fuel on it. For a time, they tipped me into some very dark places.

But even in that darkness, something unexpected happened, clarity. Humanity. I found parts of myself I’d lost, or maybe never truly known. I started to understand others in a way I couldn’t before. I could have gone to war over the accusations. Slung mud back. "You’re a liar." "No, you are." And believe me, I came close. The injustice burned hot. Still does, sometimes.

But I didn’t. I held the line, occasionally steping over but always bringing myself back, however hard that was.

And what came from that restraint was empathy. Real, hard-earned empathy.

Why did my son say those things? I’ve asked myself that a hundred times. I don’t know for sure. But I can guess, not to excuse, but to understand.

He’s young. His brain is still developing. The prefrontal cortex, the part responsible for decision-making, emotional regulation, impulse control, isn’t fully online until the mid-to-late twenties, sometimes even thirties. He was flooded with testosterone. Caught in fight-or-flight. And he thought he was fighting for his mum’s survival. He saw me, strong, sure, relentless, as the threat. In his eyes, I was the adversary. And in that moment, he needed to win. So he reached for the most powerful weapon he had: the narrative.

The story.

It wasn't the full truth. But it was his defence.

And I had to own my part in that too. Not the accusations themselves, but the dynamic. What did I model? What did I miss? What did I fail to explain? I didn’t ask those questions to blame myself, but to ensure I never repeated the same mistakes. I had to look at him not just as a son, but as a young man, still forming, still figuring out the world. And that gave me a perspective I never had before.

The same applies to how we interpret others, especially ex-partners. So many men I speak to say, “She’s obviously doing [insert painful thing] to get at me.”
But I always ask: Is that true?
Or is that just what the story feels like?

Because often, it's not an attack. It's protection. It's survival. People tell themselves stories to make sense of what hurts, or what shames them, or what they can’t face. You’re not just dealing with a partner or ex, you’re dealing with someone trying to protect a fragile part of themselves, just like you are - You know how that feels!

That’s where this work becomes masculine in the truest sense: not in aggression, but in ownership. Not in dominating, but in understanding. Not in fighting every falsehood, but in becoming a man who no longer needs the world to validate his truth.

The problem is, getting to that place, where you no longer need validation, is brutally hard. Because we do need it. We need to feel seen. We need to feel connected. We need to feel loved and safe and part of something. That’s not weakness. That’s biology. That’s the very thing that drives us.

But we can still aim for something steadier. We can keep examining who we are. Rooting out the invasive, persistent thoughts. Letting go of the parts of the story that don’t serve us. This isn’t a one-time fix. It’s not a box you tick. It’s a discipline. Because we are fighting against something ancient in us, the instinct to defend or attack. Neither of which resolve anything.

The only path forward is personal reflection. And extending the kind of grace to others that we’re desperate to receive ourselves.

I’m not writing this from the top of some mountain. I’m still half way up it, still learning, still failing, still getting back up. But I’m clearer than I’ve ever been about the kind of man I want to be. One who doesn’t flinch from the truth, even when it hurts. One who leads with steadiness, not ego. Who chooses reflection over reaction, and grace over resentment, not because it’s easy, but because it’s right.

If you’re in the thick of it right now, reeling from the gap between someone’s story and the reality you know, I want to say this: you’re not broken. You’re being shaped. If you let it, this pain can forge something solid in you. Not bitterness. Not numbness. But strength. Depth. Integrity.

And that’s the kind of masculinity the world desperately needs.

So if any of this resonates, if you’ve been through something similar, or are still deep in it, I want to hear your story.

Tell me how you’ve felt.
What you’ve gained.
What you’ve lost.
What it’s taught you about yourself.

There’s strength in sharing, and even more in being heard. You’re not on your own in this.