Have you seen the Louis Theroux programme about the ‘Manosphere’ yet? It’s a very odd window into a very odd world. One that feels both baffling and, at times, deeply unsettling.
There’s been a lot of coverage of the manosphere, and undoubtedly, there are some fairly unpleasant characters in it. There are also things going on inside it that we, regardless of gender, age or politics, should all be ashamed and horrified by. It can be hard to watch without feeling a mix of disbelief and concern about where some of these ideas are heading.
But essentially, when you strip it back, this is about insecure boys playing at being men, except the book they’ve read on manhood appears to have been written by someone who thinks pornography is a documentary. The performance of masculinity on show is exaggerated, transactional and, ultimately, pretty hollow.
And, like so many modern movements, the purpose of the manosphere is to sell stuff. The big dogs at the top are peddling online advice on how to get more muscle, more girls and get rich quick. Confidence, identity and even relationships are all neatly packaged and sold as if they were no more complicated than a gym membership or a protein shake.
The things they are selling remind me of those flyers that used to be taped to lampposts in the 70s, promising we could earn £100s in an hour from the comfort of our own homes. This is just the new digital version. Slicker, louder, and operating on a scale that would have required far more lampposts than my small Yorkshire town could ever have mustered.
But all this did get me thinking. The idea of the manosphere is built around ‘influencers’, which is a concept I still struggle with. You don’t get to tell me you’re an influencer. That’s not how it works. Influence is something that’s quietly earned over time, not loudly declared in a bio.
There have been many amazing human beings (and at least two dogs) who have influenced how I see good and bad, smart and foolish, and how I choose to live my life. None of them ever announced it. They just got on with being decent, interesting, flawed, kind people and somehow that was enough. No ring light required. No carefully curated backdrop. No merchandise.
As mid-life women, we have all been major influencers already. First and foremost, we’ve influenced our children, our partners and most certainly the people we work with. Often, we’ve done it without even noticing, through the small, consistent things like showing up, listening, holding things together when they wobble, and occasionally giving someone the nudge they didn’t know they needed.
And in doing so, we’ve frequently rewritten the rules for the people around us – not through grand declarations or viral moments, but through the steady, unremarkable-looking work of just being present. Of remembering the thing someone mentioned three weeks ago. Of knowing when to push and when to step back. Of making someone feel seen without making a performance of it.
And, in return, we’ve been influenced by all those people too. That’s the quiet joy of living in a society. Influence, at its best, is a two-way street. It evolves, softens and deepens over time.
Right now, I’m finding a fabulous new lease of life interacting with my granddaughter. I hope I’m being a positive influence on her, but the truth is, she, at 30 months old, is also bringing out a side of me that I haven’t enjoyed for years. There’s a lightness to it. A rediscovery of curiosity, silliness and unfiltered joy, that feels both new and strangely familiar.
Because here’s the thing about small children – they don’t care about your status, your follower count or whether you’re having a good hair day. They care whether you’ll get down on the floor and look at the beetle with them. Whether you’ll do the voice. Whether you’ll eat the pretend cake and declare it delicious. In that world, you either show up fully or you don’t. And showing up fully turns out to be extraordinarily good for the soul.
So, forget the Manosphere, let’s hear it for the Sassy influencers of the ‘Nanosphere’.
We’re not selling anything. There are no subscriptions, no courses, no ‘limited time offers.’ Instead, we’re passing on smart moves, a set of values our grandkids will carry through life, and helping them develop their negotiating skills with people who’ll do anything for them but, deep down, will still let them win when it really matters.
We’re teaching resilience without calling it that. Kindness without announcing it. Confidence without monetising it. We’re showing them that the world is both bigger and kinder than the internet tends to suggest, and that the best things in life genuinely aren’t available on a subscription model.
The Nanosphere is a world filled with joy and love. No one is getting rich quick, no one is getting hurt, and everybody wins. Just not in the way the internet usually measures it.
We should enjoy every moment, break most of the rules, and be exactly the kind of ‘influencer’ worth having.
I can’t help but wonder what Louis Theroux would make of that.