Most men are either trying too hard or giving up entirely.
One folds himself into whatever others expect. The other vanishes. Passive, resentful, numb.
But there’s a third way. Rare now. Not loud. Not performative. Not afraid.
Just rooted.
I keep coming back to this image from Jeremiah:
Blessed is the man who trusts in the Lord… He is like a tree planted by water, that sends out its roots by the stream. He does not fear when heat comes. — Jeremiah 17:7-8
Trees don’t perform. They don’t prove anything. They just go deep.
The roots grow in places no one sees. Slow. Hidden. Constant. And because of that, when everything shakes—when the heat comes, when the conversation gets tense, when emotions rise—they stay.
That’s what I’m after.
The posture you carry
Your body is already saying something before you speak.
Slumped shoulders preach defeat. A bowed head signals shame. But standing straight—not in pride, but in presence—says something different: I’m here. I belong. I’m responsible.
This isn’t about puffing up. It’s about aligning your body with your calling.
You don’t have to wait to feel confident to lead. But you do have to stand like you’ve been entrusted with something.
Posture is spiritual. It reflects agreement. With truth or with fear.
When you feel passive, stand up. Even for 30 seconds. Let your body break agreement with shame.
Strength that doesn’t dominate
Strength gets twisted.
Some men fear it, so they avoid it. Others worship it, so they overuse it.
But the men who earn trust—the ones people actually feel safe around—are strong and restrained. Their power is real, but it’s not reckless. It’s yielded.
Jesus could silence storms, flip tables, cast out demons. And still welcome children. Weep in public. Stay silent in front of Pilate.
That’s the model. Power held quietly. Knowing when not to use it.
You can handle disrespect without becoming disrespectful. You’re strong enough to walk away from the fight—not because you’re weak, but because you don’t need to win everything.
People feel safer around you, not smaller.
The pace you keep
Speed is overrated.
Everyone’s rushing to be seen, to get somewhere, to not miss out. But the men who shape the room—who people remember—carry something deeper.
They’re not urgent. They’re steady.
They walk slower… and carry more.
Hurry makes you shallow. You move past nuance. You speak before listening. You decide before discerning.
But when you slow down, you notice what others miss. You hear beneath the noise. You respond instead of react.
You become someone people trust—because your presence isn’t scattered.
Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. — Philippians 4:5
Arrive early. Don’t rush into rooms—inhabit them. Pause before you speak. Let silence do some of the talking.
Walk with God before you walk with people. Your pace begins in the secret place.
The field you tend
Every man is given a field.
Your mind. Your heart. Your household. Your calling. Your relationships. Your craft.
What you do with it is your offering.
God gives the seed, the soil, the potential. But the growth is tied to your stewardship.
You don’t get the fruit if you don’t do the work. No one else is coming to pull your weeds, catch your foxes, or water what God gave you.
Catch for us the foxes, the little foxes that ruin the vineyards… — Song of Solomon 2:15
It’s not always the big sin that wrecks a man. It’s the small patterns of avoidance. Distraction. Delay. Self-pity. They quietly spoil the field.
Pull the weeds. Water the good. Fence the edges. Keep showing up.
Growth favors the consistent, not the gifted.
The weight you carry
You’ve been entrusted with responsibility. Not just tasks—but people, vision, expectation, legacy.
Some days it’s too much. Some days you wonder if you’re even allowed to say it’s heavy.
But strength isn’t proven by how much you can lift in silence. It’s proven by how well you carry what matters—and lay down what doesn’t.
You don’t need to hold everything. Just what’s yours. And you don’t need to hold it alone.
Don’t wear exhaustion like a badge. Don’t confuse martyrdom with leadership. Don’t carry other people’s emotions like they’re your responsibility to fix.
You’re a steward, not the source.
Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest… For my yoke is easy and my burden is light. — Matthew 11:28-30
The fire you carry
There’s a drive in you. To build something real. To make it count. To not waste your shot.
That drive can become worship—or it can become a trap.
You can be called by God and still hijack the mission for your ego. You can be building the right thing but in the wrong spirit.
Holy ambition isn’t about chasing more. It’s about carrying fire without burning out.
Submit the fire. Let God refine your drive so it doesn’t consume you. Pursue without panic. Urgency isn’t the same as obedience.
Stay interruptible. If your ambition can’t make space for people, it’s not holy.
Lead with a limp. Let your weakness shape your posture, not your pace.
Would you still pursue this if no one ever saw it?
The calm you bring
People panic. They react. They disappear. They grasp for control or collapse into silence.
But not you.
You’re the man who stays. When the conversation gets tense. When emotions rise. When the plan falls apart. You don’t retreat. You don’t rush. You remain.
That’s unshakable presence. And it’s rare.
Stillness doesn’t mean you don’t feel. It means you don’t leak. You don’t lash.
You stay grounded in the moment, in your body, in your spirit. You hold your peace—and in doing so, you offer it.
A man who can sit in silence becomes a man others trust with pain.
Be still, and know that I am God. — Psalm 46:10
Start your day from the center. No inputs. No noise. No fixing. Just silence and God.
Stillness in the morning makes you unshakeable by night.
The respect you earn
It’s not flattery. It’s not popularity.
It’s the nod from another man who sees your life and knows: He’s solid.
You don’t need to be the loudest in the room. You don’t need a platform. You just need to be real, rooted, and ready to carry weight.
Respect is earned in the unseen. It grows in the quiet.
Self-control under pressure. Courage in conversation. Follow-through. Discipline without drama. Loyalty. Weight-bearing presence.
Men don’t respect perfection. They respect presence. They respect clarity. They respect real.
You don’t need to impress. You need to become.
What this requires
Do the hidden work. Pray, journal, lift, fast, forgive. The roots grow in places no one sees.
Stop reacting. When you feel triggered, don’t vent. Breathe. Ask, “What am I protecting?”
Tell the truth—especially when it costs you. That’s how your integrity earns weight.
Sit in discomfort. Stay in the conversation. Stay in the tension. Stay with the emotion. That’s how you grow a spine and a soul.
You’ll know you’re rooted when you stop apologizing for your strength—and stop using it to dominate.
When you stay steady when others bring emotion, challenge, or silence.
When you don’t rush to fill space, prove a point, or take the credit.
When your inner life matches your outer words.
When you feel peace without needing permission.
The room shifts when you walk in. Not because you demand control—but because you don’t need it.
People settle. You trust him before he speaks. And when he does, it’s with weight.
He doesn’t chase approval. He doesn’t flinch from truth. And when everything shakes—he stays.
Not loud. Not performative. Not afraid.
Just rooted.