We Keep Counting Dead Women. Why Are We Not Counting Violent Men?

We keep counting dead women.

Why are we not counting violent men?

Every article lists the number of women raped, stalked, assaulted, or murdered.

The numbers climb. The names change. The framing does not.

Women are not being harmed by ghosts.

They are being harmed by men.

Yet the spotlight never lingers there.

Instead, we’re met with the reflexive incantation: “Not all men.”

A phrase so effective precisely because it is technically true — and strategically irrelevant.

Not all men.

And not all chambers are loaded in Russian roulette either.

Yes, it’s that serious.

The danger isn’t that every man is violent.

The danger is that enough are, and the rest are socially trained not to look too closely.

When we say “1 in 4 women experience sexual violence”, what we are really saying is that a significant percentage of men commit it.

Those men are not all monsters hiding in alleys.

They are doctors.

Servers.

Teachers.

Fathers.

Neighbours.

Massage therapists.

Police officers.

Priests.

Coaches.

Bank managers.

Men at the gym.

Men at AA.

Men trusted by communities.

Violence doesn’t come from the margins.

It comes from the ordinary, protected by familiarity and silence.

Common gaslights float around these conversations:

• “Men get abused too.” Yes. Absolutely. And often by men. Sometimes by women who were abused by men. Sometimes by women who were abused by men’s system of silence and control.

• “It’s just one bad apple.” Maybe — but the orchard is poisoned.

• “We should focus on solutions, not blame.” True — but we can’t solve a problem if we won’t name its pattern.

If there is anyone truly suffering — struggling with addiction, trauma, or harm — there are ways to get help. This writing exists to light a path, to show that accountability, survival, and healing can coexist.

There is no excuse to justify using another human being as a pacifier for your unhealed wounds. Violence continues due to a lack of accountability and enforced containment. Violent males are a danger to society — a systemic contagion when accountability and containment are absent.

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And this matters to say:

Good men have suffered under this system too.

They’ve been gaslit, beaten down, isolated, and traumatized — not because they are violent, but because they refused to be.

They are asked, “Where are all the good men?” — as if shouted into the void — while many are already exhausted, surviving quietly, holding everything inside.

They are not absent.

They are often waiting.

Waiting for a world where goodness is not punished.

Waiting for the feminine to rise.

Some are already holding the light — because where we are going, there is no need for armour.

Only truth.

Only departure from what harms.

The lights go on.

We walk away.

We take flight. 🕊️

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“Standing down” is not disappearing.

“Holding the light” is not withdrawing from reality.

“Letting God go first” is not abandoning discernment.

The healthiest way to live this is:

Act when aligned.

Do not act when pulled by fear, rescue fantasy, or trauma bonds.

Some men have also navigated and escaped hell.

Some have learned restraint, faith, and initiation — the hard way.

God, or the Creator, or the universe — call it what you will — teaches them patience and alignment.

To watch, to witness, to trust sovereignty, and to prepare for union that is mutual, not imposed.

When two people meet from that place — both sovereign, both embodied, neither rescuing nor collapsing — it doesn’t feel like conquest or salvation.

It feels like recognition.

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The constant centering of female victimhood in a systematic, centuries old pattern, subtly absolves male behaviour.

It makes violence seem like weather — tragic, inevitable, nobody’s fault.

This is not fair to women.

It is not fair to children.

And it is not fair to good men, who are forced to live under a culture that refuses to clean its own house.

If we want fewer victims, we must talk about perpetrators.

If we want safety, we must examine male socialization, entitlement, secrecy, and peer silence.

We don’t end an epidemic by asking the vulnerable to adapt.

We end it by confronting the source.

And the source has a gendered pattern whether we are comfortable naming it or not.

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This is not hatred.

This is medicine.

Your suffering can become your power.

Your awareness can become your shield.

And your words — sharpened by experience, tempered by vision — can illuminate the path.

Walk through hell like you own the place.

Take the exit.

Take flight.