I watched Adolescence a few weeks ago and have been sitting with it since. The series was nuanced and thought-provoking, but what stayed with me most was what it revealed about who we choose to centre, who we overlook, and what we quietly permit through the narratives we platform. Adolescence is a Netflix drama following the story of 13-year-old Jamie, delving into the pressures teenagers face; mainly bullying, the influence of social media, incel culture and toxic masculinity. 

The auspicious timing of this series’ release, which (re)introduces much-needed conversations into the national discourse, served as a brilliant exigence to interrogate understandings of gender, power and identity in young people. For me, this show really brought to the surface questions around marketable masculinity, classroom culture, victimhood, and what we understand to be progress.

Toxic masculinity is not a standalone issue – it is an issue intertwined with rapidly developing societal concerns that have been left unaddressed. It runs parallel to the hyper-sexualisation and adultification of girls, be that in how they are expected to manage the responses of others, or in how they are often treated as older or more knowing than they are. It also runs parallel to the rampant rise of toxic ideas propagated widely on social media, fallacious beauty standards embedded into myriad generations, a shaping of femininity through pornographic expectations, and a shaping of masculinity rooted in narratives of entitlement and misogyny. 

Part of the incel adjacent culture we see emerging in online spaces and popularised by parasitic paragons like Andrew Tate, is based on the belief that girls are being ‘mean’, ‘cruel’ or performatively rejecting boys. This happens when Tate tells young boys that ‘a woman’s job is to test a man… she’ll reject you to see if you’re weak’ – a message explored in Adolescence. 

When we pivot this to an educational lens, it is about how young people come to misread each other through these distorted gender scripts. Boys are being led to misinterpret intentions and are not explicitly taught to process rejection or discomfort. Girls are being told they intend harm, and are not being protected from the burden of having to soften their no. This reflects a deep misunderstanding of the vulnerabilities both boys and girls carry and the lack of education among both young people and the adults around them about their socialisation. 

This is not to excuse harm, but to acknowledge that many young people are still learning how to navigate relationships. They are shaped by online spaces that reward performance over depth, and are often left without the tools to process rejection, vulnerability or boundaries. 

Navigating The Great Rewiring of the Modern Childhood

In The Anxious Generation, Jonathan Haidt explores how modern childhood has been reshaped by the rise of smartphones and social media, and how this has contributed to a sharp increase in anxiety, depression and social withdrawal among young people. His central argument is that we have allowed what he calls “the great rewiring of childhood” to happen without the structures or safeguards to protect children from its harms. Social media, he argues, has altered not just how children connect with others, but how they form their identities, process emotions and understand risk.

When reading the book, the synergies between Haidt and Ali ibn Abi Talib RA, who lived more than 1400 years ago, became even more evident. It is natural for preceding generations to believe that the way they parented was most effective, which might be true in certain cases. But Ali RA said, “Do not raise your children the way your parents raised you; they were born for a different time.” This advice transcends time, and these words feel even more urgent today. 

We cannot parent or teach in ways that ignore the world our children are growing up in. What shaped us is not necessarily what will serve them. 

This is what reflective leadership demands, whether in the home, in the classroom, or at a national level. Some governments are beginning to acknowledge the weight of social media’s influence on young people. In the Netherlands, for instance, national strategies have been implemented to embed media literacy into the school curriculum, teaching students how to critically engage with what they consume online. In France, children under 15 are now banned from accessing social media platforms without parental consent, and the government has launched campaigns warning parents and schools of the psychological effects of screen dependency. Meanwhile, in South Korea, new policies allow parents to request summaries of their child’s online activity to prompt more open conversation at home.

These moves, though imperfect, point to a growing awareness that young people’s media environments must be shaped intentionally, and not left to chance or algorithms. They reflect what Haidt argues for: a cultural shift in how we view technology’s place in childhood, and the need for leadership not only in homes and schools, but in policy.

While some of us know how to filter our feeds from the ‘Masculine Meat Man,’ understand the implications of that rhetoric, and learn how to challenge it, not everyone does. Especially not children. 

And this is why it matters that we listen to them. Too often, boys are framed as problems to be fixed or as perpetrators in waiting, while girls are left to navigate discomfort, fear or constraint that is too often brushed aside as overreaction or immaturity. In both cases, we fail to recognise them as young people trying to make sense of complex emotions and expectations. We need to stop cutting the mic on their voices by creating space for them to speak through consistent, meaningful, and reflective dialogue. If we want to move from transmission to transformation, we must let our children shape the conversation. Their voices are not supplementary to this work: they are central to it.

Long before we had language for toxic masculinity, Carl Jung was speaking about internal conflict, and his ideas feel particularly relevant here. In his work Psychological Types (1921), he wrote about masculine and feminine energies within individuals, not as stereotypes but as parts of the psyche that must be integrated. The ‘anima’ (inner feminine) speaks to qualities like vulnerability and intuition. The ‘animus’ (inner masculine), to agency and clarity. This means teaching students to confront the aspects of themselves that society has taught them to suppress through gendered socialisation. 

For boys, it might mean owning and developing emotional depth. For girls, it might mean owning and developing authority and agency. Building on Jung’s work, if we are all socialised to repress parts of ourselves based on gendered expectations, then perhaps the deeper question is not about masculinity or femininity at all, but what it means to be fully human. Integration, in this sense, becomes not only a psychological task but a social one.

Colonial Masculinity vs Prophetic Masculinity

When interrogating the scope of impact of the above, especially in racialised communities, what we see emerging is a brand of masculinity that is rooted in neoliberal, patriarchal models and the personification of ‘the alpha’. And we cannot separate this brand from the politics of memory, because masculinity, both in Muslim and non-Muslim communities, is increasingly shaped by affective politics and flawed historical memory. This is particularly visible in Muslim contexts, where ideas of sovereignty and honour are entangled with nostalgia for precolonial strength or postcolonial resilience. 

Khoja-Moolji, in her work Sovereign Attachments, explains that when this memory is curated through militarised metaphors and romanticised narratives, it leads to a form of masculinity that is idealised as something to be reclaimed or returned to, rather than critically examined or transformed. This nostalgia for a mythic past becomes fertile ground for influencers to gain traction by offering a sense of certainty and dominance in contexts where nuanced understandings and justice are needed. In these spaces, masculinity is sold as both rebellion and return. 

The disguising of colonial and racialised forms of masculinity as a norm to aspire to has led to dominance being framed as self-improvement and a version of masculinity far removed from Prophetic tradition: a model of manhood rooted in humility, justice, and emotional openness. In Prophetic tradition, masculinity wasn’t about who speaks the loudest or who is followed without question. It was about Amanah – trust. Leadership was earned through service, not dominance. The Prophet ﷺ wept openly, sought counsel, and stood when his daughters entered the room. That is not soft, nor weak masculinity. It is a just, relational, and accountable one. And it is markedly different from the kind of faux-authority sold to boys online.

What is often missing from modern takes on Muslim masculinity is an understanding of emotional ethics. The sunnah is not about beard length or tone of voice. It is about earning trust through humility, modelling justice through your words and actions, and staying rooted in a commitment to those around you. 

These aren’t just private virtues: they are public positions. That means raising boys who do not outsource their dignity to dominance, and who understand that softness and strength are not opposites; they are Prophetic twins.

The modern take on masculinity looks like empowerment, but it functions like branding. And when it is palatable to power, it rarely disrupts it, creating far more issues than rectifying them.  This isn’t a new conversation, and many Muslim thinkers are already pushing back on the way masculinity is being misframed. Tabsira’s writing on The ‘Righteous’ Tryant archetype is essential reading here. He explores how patriarchal messaging is dressed up in Islamic language, making it harder to challenge from within the community. What emerges is a ‘halalified’ version of this ideology: one that upholds male dominance while masking itself as faith-aligned. It’s not spirituality. It’s branding. 

And then there is the language of power itself. Though the language around masculinity has evolved, many of the frameworks in practice remain underdeveloped. These frameworks shape how we speak, how we label, and what we permit. This transformative work begins with the language we choose. Historically, traits such as ‘dominance’, ‘control’ and ‘emotional detachment’ were framed as indicators of strength. Yet these characteristics reflect not an inherent masculine ideal but a cultural script that has long equated power with the absence of vulnerability.

It bears repeating that toxic masculinity is not masculinity taken too far; it is masculinity severed from context, care and accountability. It reproduces harm by rewarding emotional suppression and performative dominance, often under the guise of resilience.

What’s radical is that Jung framed the integration of the anima and animus as absolutely essential to self-understanding. He saw rigid gender roles as psychologically limiting, and though shaped by historical realities of the 20th century, the core idea is deeply resonant: that masculinity and femininity are not opposites to be policed but energies to be balanced. 

So, when we talk today about masculinity needing to be redefined or reclaimed, we need to clearly define it. Healthy or reflective masculinities are grounded in self-awareness, relational responsibility and emotional intelligence. These are not soft traits. They are socially necessary ones. And the further we drift from this understanding, the more we confuse image with integrity. When masculinity becomes a brand, not a character trait, it divorces itself from justice and becomes about consumption, dominance, and appearance. This is what we should be tackling, and transparently so.

Beyond the Alpha: Rethinking Masculinity in Schools

At our school, as Head of Sixth Form, I see daily how this work is lived, not just taught. It is reflected in the language students use with each other, in the questions they are beginning to ask, and in the ways they hold one another to account. We make intentional space for dialogue. Not through perfect frameworks but through an ongoing effort to build cultural literacy and challenge assumptions. We also bring in outside voices to help stretch those conversations. While toxic masculinity absolutely exists, it is telling that staff often reflect on how it does not dominate the atmosphere here in the way it might elsewhere. That is not a coincidence. It is the outcome of consistent, often unseen, modelling and relational practice. It is not extra. It is culture. 

This is a culture that is built ground up; it’s grassroots, by which I mean the daily (often invisible) interactions and modelling that shape home and school cultures. And what we normalise in classrooms often begins around the dinner table. It needs to be embedded at home and built on at school. For parents, this means keeping a watchful eye on how masculinity is performed in everyday life: it means examining what is unconsciously taught through our language, our jokes, our media, and our domestic roles. 

Too often, patriarchal norms are rehearsed within households, and this transpires in the ways we interrupt our daughters more quickly, ask them to be the ones who give in, or overlook their opinions in familial decisions. We need to reflect; do we speak with our girls as contributors, or speak about them as though they are not in the room? Are they given space to lead within the home, or only expected to help once decisions are made? Do we consider how this approach to ‘femininity’ directly informs notions of masculinity in the mindset of young people? What we normalise in our domestic spaces informs how children show up in the world – what they believe they deserve, and what they think others are entitled to. 

For progress, we need to ask: do we model a masculinity rooted in empathy and integrity, or one centred around control and invulnerability? 

Do our sons see us apologise? Do our daughters see us lead? These aren’t ideological questions. They are practical ones. They shape how our young people learn about who they are allowed to be. 

For policy-makers and senior leaders in schools, leading on strategy and cultivating a nurturing school culture is about reimagining our everyday practices to foster genuine emotional safety and collective accountability. It is not simply a matter of instituting new policies or directives; rather, it means embedding values of empathy, trust, and mutual respect into every interaction, from quiet classroom discussions to the broader leadership ethos that guides us.

This transformative work begins with the language we choose. Shifting away from deficit labels, and discarding terms like ‘difficult boy’ in favour of expressions that acknowledge a young person’s evolving needs, invites a more thoughtful understanding of identity. In doing so, we recognise that strength is not measured solely by stoicism or the suppression of vulnerability, but by the courage to engage with one’s full emotional landscape.

Equally, forging lasting partnerships with community organisations committed to open dialogue, such as Voicebox, which is a youth-led platform that amplifies diverse voices through media and storytelling, and Beyond Equality, which works with boys and men to explore healthier models of masculinity, ensures that our efforts are both informed by and accountable to a wider conversation about gender, identity and power. These collaborations centre student voices, bring fresh perspectives that challenge conventional narratives, and help us reframe masculinity as a balanced integration of strength and sensitivity. 

At the core of this approach is the need for leadership that is both reflective and robust. When educators examine how control has sometimes been prioritised over trust and engage in professional learning that challenges this, they begin to shift the foundations of authority itself. This is not about abandoning discipline. It is about understanding the difference between compliance and respect. Leadership rooted in reflection, both at home and in the classroom, is not a luxury. It is a necessary condition for progress.

Ultimately, in times of social challenge, true progress emerges not from reactive measures but from the quiet, deliberate work of re-rooting our shared values. It is within these everyday practices that we build a community where every young person can embody their full humanity. A future where masculinity is not about dominance, but about the balance of vulnerability and strength.

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References

1. Girlhood Interrupted: The Erasure of Black Girls’ Childhood (Georgetown Law, 2017)
2. Reflections on Prophetic Manhood: Yaqeen Institute
3. Omar Suleiman: 40 Hadiths on Justice
4. The ‘Righteous’ Tyrant: Andrew Tate, ‘Not All Muslim Men,’ and the So-Called ‘Crisis’ of Masculinity (Tabsira’s Archive)