You Are Not the Problem

This might seem like a silly thing to write about—celebrity culture, albums, Grammy speeches. But I’ve always believed that what happens in the public eye reflects something deeper in the collective. Culture is a mirror. And celebrities, in many ways, are archetypes. They live out the collective psyche in real time—our aspirations, our pain, our projections, our healing.

I’ll never forget when Miley Cyrus won the Grammy for Flowers last year. I didn’t expect to feel anything, but when I watched her walk onto that stage, I felt this quiet wave of tears rise. It wasn’t just the song—it was what it meant.

Here stood a woman who had been torn apart, mocked, sexualized, criticized—too much, too wild, too free. And now she was being recognized for creating something rooted in self-worth. She wasn’t singing about pain to be validated—she was singing from the other side of it. She chose herself. Her healing. Her voice. And the world honored it.

It felt like Lilith come to life.

The part of the feminine that refuses to be tamed. That walks away instead of staying small. That creates from her own wild fire. That no longer asks to be chosen because she has already chosen herself.

So many women I know are living this same story in quieter, braver ways. They’re walking away from relationships that once defined them. They’re choosing solitude over settling. They’re saying no to being someone’s emotional caretaker. They’re healing the wounds they used to abandon themselves for. And in the process, they’re becoming visible to themselves again—for the first time in years.

But not every story in the collective affirms this growth.

This morning, Morgan Wallen released a new album titled I’m the Problem. I was curious. I’ll admit—I had hopes. The title implied some sort of accountability. A sign, maybe, that the masculine was beginning to reflect. To evolve. To look inward.

But what I heard instead broke my heart.

The album plays like a wounded boy’s lament—not for the harm he’s caused, but for the fact that women won’t keep tolerating it. He longs for a woman who "used to need him," and resents the version of her that has outgrown him. He labels her wholeness as coldness. Her boundaries as rejection. Her growth as selfish.

In one song, he talks about how he “tried to heal”—but what he really means is that he tried not to drink, not to sleep around, not to do drugs, not to go out. And when that got hard, he gave up.

That’s not healing. That’s behavior control.

Healing isn’t about acting good. It’s about being willing to change. It’s about sitting with your shame and facing the wreckage you’ve caused, not asking someone else to make you feel better. And this is the heartbreak so many women face again and again—the realization that what they thought was vulnerability was actually manipulation in disguise.

This album is a soundtrack to what women are meeting every day in the dating world: men who say they’re trying, but really mean they’re waiting for us to shrink. Men who claim they’ve “done the work” but haven’t even entered the room. Men who confuse absence of bad behavior with healing. Who want to be loved without being held accountable. Who romanticize their pain and resent women for moving on instead of staying to fix it.

And it goes deeper.

There’s something even more insidious beneath the surface of this album:
He glorifies the version of the relationship they had when they were both broken.
He doesn’t long for their love at its healthiest—he wants her back in the version of herself that matched his wounds. The girl who drank with him, numbed with him, stayed despite the pain. He calls that connection. But it wasn’t love—it was survival. Trauma bonding. And now that she’s chosen healing, he calls her cold for no longer meeting him in that pain.

And along with that, he glorifies the sex. The intensity. The chaos. As if that was the peak of their connection.
Not tenderness. Not safety. Not growth.
But the high of passion and pain woven together.
This is what so many women are taught to call love—
But it’s not.
It’s trauma dressed in poetry.
Intensity is not intimacy.
Longing is not love.
And women are no longer confusing adrenaline with connection.

But let’s be clear:

This isn’t the sacred masculine.
This isn’t growth.
This isn’t what healing looks like.

This is the wounded feminine inside a man—unmet, ashamed, and turned outward in control. This is the unhealed part of him that never felt loved, now trying to reclaim power by devaluing the woman who no longer needs him. He’s not standing in his masculinity—he’s weaponizing his pain. And that is what makes it so dangerous. Because it sounds like honesty. But it's a trap. A spiritual bait-and-switch designed to pull women back into cycles they fought hard to leave behind.

And we need to name it.

Because this isn’t just about one album.
This is about what happens every time the feminine rises.

We like to think we’ve evolved past the days of witch trials and burning stakes. But the truth is, the war on the feminine never ended—it just changed forms. Now, she is burned through erasure. Through gaslighting. Through mockery. Through media. Through music. Through the message that if she walks away from a man who won’t grow, she’s “too full of herself.”

This album isn’t harmless. It’s a modern artifact of that war.

And it’s why I’m writing this—not as a critique, but as a warning.

Don’t go back.

Don’t go back to being small so someone else can feel big.
Don’t go back to explaining your worth to someone committed to misunderstanding it.
Don’t go back to mistaking self-abandonment for love.

They will call you difficult.
They will call you selfish.
They will call you unkind for walking away.

Let them.

You are not too much.
You are not too proud.
You are just not available to be someone else’s emotional parent anymore.

You are healing. You are growing. You are rising.

And the world needs women who refuse to shrink.

But let me be even clearer:

This is not a war that women should have to fight alone.
It never was.

The healed masculine is rising too—quietly, humbly. Not to save us. Not to overpower us. But to stand with us. To honor the sacred in us. To protect what has been persecuted. To say no more to the systems that feed off of our silence.

He doesn’t flinch at our power—he celebrates it.
He doesn’t resent our boundaries—he respects them.
He isn’t threatened by our wholeness—he is drawn to it.

And when we rise, he rises too.
Not as a competitor, but as a guardian of the sacred.

We must remember—this isn’t about hating men.
This is about refusing to betray ourselves in order to be loved by them.
And as we rise, we have to pray for the masculine.
Not in pity—but in reverence.
Because the world needs them healed, too.

The answer isn’t man-hating. The answer is discernment.
The answer is truth.
The answer is choosing partners who meet us in wholeness—
and lovingly walking away from those who cannot.

We can hold sacred boundaries while still holding space for the masculine to rise.

In fact, we must.

So if this album left a bitter taste in your mouth—trust that feeling.
It’s not just yours. It’s ours.

Don’t go back.
Not when you’ve come this far.