Man Enough

Man Enough Plot Summary

Introduction

I still remember that moment vividly. Standing on the edge of a bridge twenty feet above a raging river, my thirteen-year-old body trembling not from the cold, but from fear. "Jump, don't be a pussy!" shouted my friend from below. In that moment, I faced a choice that would repeat throughout my life: honor my genuine feelings of fear, or suppress them to prove my manhood. I jumped – not because I suddenly found courage, but because I was more terrified of being seen as weak than of physical harm. This pattern would follow me for decades, this constant pressure to perform masculinity rather than simply exist as myself. The journey from that bridge to authentic selfhood has been long and tumultuous. For many of us, masculinity has become a suit of armor we don't even realize we're wearing – heavy, restrictive, and ultimately cutting us off from true connection. We've been taught that to be a man means to be brave without fear, strong without vulnerability, successful without failure, and sexual without insecurity. But what if these definitions are too narrow? What if the very things we've been taught to hide – our sensitivity, our doubts, our emotions – are actually our greatest strengths? This journey isn't about rejecting masculinity, but about expanding it to include all of who we are, discovering that we don't need to fit into a predefined box to be enough.

Chapter 1: The Bridge: When Performance Replaces Authenticity

The dimly lit auditorium fell silent as Justin Baldoni stepped onto the TED stage. His heart pounded against his chest, not from the fear of public speaking, but from the vulnerability of what he was about to share. For years, he had portrayed Rafael Solano on "Jane the Virgin" – a character embodying traditional masculinity with his chiseled physique and confident demeanor. Yet standing there, Justin prepared to reveal something entirely different: his lifelong struggle with feeling "man enough." This journey began in his childhood, where despite being athletic and popular, Justin constantly questioned if he measured up to society's expectations of manhood. He recalled a pivotal moment in middle school when he was bullied for crying after losing a wrestling match. "Don't be a pussy," the other boys taunted, cementing the message that emotions equaled weakness. This experience wasn't unique to Justin – it reflected a universal struggle many men face when their authentic selves clash with society's rigid definitions of masculinity. As Justin grew older, this inner conflict intensified. He found himself playing roles both on and off screen – the tough guy, the ladies' man, the provider who never showed vulnerability. He built an impressive physique, dated beautiful women, and projected confidence, yet inside felt increasingly disconnected from his true self. The more he achieved external markers of "success" as a man, the emptier he felt. This paradox became the catalyst for his deeper exploration. The turning point came through unexpected mentors – terminally ill individuals Justin interviewed for a documentary series. These people, facing death, spoke with clarity about what truly matters: authentic connection, vulnerability, and living aligned with one's values. One young man named Christopher, battling terminal cancer, showed more courage in his vulnerability than Justin had ever witnessed in traditionally "strong" men. This revelation shattered Justin's perception of strength and began his quest to undefine masculinity. This questioning led Justin to examine the messages boys receive from earliest childhood – that they must be strong, never cry, always compete, and hide their emotions. He realized these messages create a "man box" that traps men in performance, disconnecting them from their full humanity and causing harm to themselves and others. The real strength, he discovered, wasn't in fitting into this box but in having the courage to step outside it. What Justin ultimately found was that the journey to authentic manhood isn't about rejecting masculinity but expanding it – creating space for vulnerability alongside strength, emotion alongside stoicism, connection alongside independence. This journey requires constant courage to question inherited beliefs about what makes a man "enough" and to choose authenticity over performance. It's a path not of becoming something new, but of returning to something we've always been beneath the armor: fully human.

Chapter 2: Body Battles: Muscles, Image, and Male Worth

"Where are your abs?" The question was followed by that preteen laugh that, as a filmmaker, Justin would have shot in slow motion with an evil soundtrack. Those four words, teasingly directed at his skinny twelve-year-old body by teammates after a soccer tournament, may have been the first time he consciously equated his muscles with his manhood. The message was clear: if he lacked muscles, he lacked manliness; if his physical body didn't measure up, then he did not measure up as a man. His body became both blessing and curse. In middle school and high school, Justin was generally one of the better all-around athletes, but he definitely wasn't the coolest. At eighteen, when he lost control of his athletic future due to injury and his college prospects became uncertain, he sought control by becoming hyperfocused on his body. Not on health, but on the size of his muscles. He was subconsciously telling himself that if he got bigger and stronger, he would be happier – or at least, less unhappy. So he hit the weight room hard. He became obsessed with gaining muscle and at one point put on twenty-five pounds, which for a six-foot-tall skinny kid was a big feat. But it wasn't enough. It was never enough. When he looked in the mirror, he didn't see what everyone else saw. He didn't see the six-pack. He saw the skinny kid whose abs weren't visible enough, whose shoulders didn't fill out his shirts enough. This was body dysmorphic disorder, which occurs almost exclusively in men when it comes to muscle perception. Ironically, his physical transformation wasn't enough to gain acceptance from other guys either. The same guys that teased him about being skinny were now giving him grief for being too muscular. It went from "Where are your abs?" to "Jesus, put on a damn shirt!" Here's the thing about guys: it doesn't matter what side of the equation we are on, we police each other. All the time. This complicated relationship with his body followed Justin into his acting career. On the set of his first big break, he found himself with fewer lines but wearing less clothing. His character was often shirtless, more than likely to justify why he was in such good shape. What people didn't know was that behind the scenes, he wouldn't eat carbs for weeks before being shirtless on camera. He wouldn't drink water on shoot days so he could look more defined. He was subconsciously depressed, lonely, and obsessing over muscle mass and body fat percentage because he felt his only value was his physical appearance. The relationship between our physical bodies and our perceived worth as men is complex and often toxic. We're taught that our masculinity is measured by our muscularity, that bigger is better, that strength equals power. But what if true strength comes not from the size of our muscles but from our ability to be vulnerable, to acknowledge our insecurities, and to treat our bodies with kindness rather than criticism? Perhaps the journey to authentic manhood begins with accepting our bodies exactly as they are – not as instruments of power or objects of comparison, but as vessels for experiencing the fullness of life.

Chapter 3: The Vulnerability Advantage: Redefining Intellectual Strength

It's 5:00 on an extra-warm, muggy New Orleans morning, and it's the first day of principal photography of Justin's directorial debut. After years of convincing studio executives that he is capable and ready to direct a film, he is finally here. So why isn't he excited? Why is he full of anxiety and fear that he's about to make a massive mistake? Why is he struggling to figure out what to wear? The truth is, while he had been trying to convince all those people for years that he is worthy and capable, he forgot to convince himself. In school, no one ever called Justin "book smart." He was an antsy kid who literally couldn't sit still at a desk. He got average grades, never was a good test taker, and attended college on a partial athletic scholarship for approximately three minutes before getting his heart broken and dropping out to pursue acting. As a result, he consistently felt dumb or less than when it came to his ability as a student, which translated into feeling inadequate as a man on a movie set or inside a conference room. Where do those feelings lead? Overcompensation. Ever meet a man who was clearly not good at something but acted like he was the foremost expert in the world on the subject? That morning in New Orleans, Justin did the only thing he could think of to make himself feel better and ensure he made the best first impression with his crew: he put on a pair of glasses with no prescription in them. His thought process was simple: if anything can help him look less like a guy who has been taking off his shirt on TV for the past decade and more like a man they can trust to make smart creative choices, it's glasses. Welcome to imposter syndrome. The tension and pressure on boys and their value being tied to their perceived intellect are both subversive and powerful. In our culture, we have often placed a higher value on men's physical feats, which means we place a lower value on intellectual pursuits. The boy who knows the answers to every question is often teased for being a "know-it-all" or a "try-hard." The athlete doesn't seem fazed by barely passing because his worth isn't tied to his performance in the classroom; it's tied to his performance in the game. One of the most consistent messages about being smart as a man is that we must have all the answers. Whether in TV shows or movies, or in families growing up, if you want to be a man of value, you have to be resourceful – but not just any resourcefulness, your own resourcefulness. This leads to a resistance to asking for help, even when we desperately need it. A study led by Ashleigh Shelby Rosette showed that male leaders are judged more harshly, and perceived as less competent, when they ask for help. The same didn't hold true for their female counterparts. What Justin discovered through his journey is that he does not need to have all the answers to be smart enough. In fact, not having all the answers is actually a good thing. If he wants to be smarter and more competent, if he wants to be a better director, actor, and entrepreneur, not to mention a better husband, father, and friend, then admitting what he doesn't know is his superpower. It's about being curious, being mindful about actions, and using that curiosity to gather information to help dissect, observe, and reframe the messages in his head. The willingness to be vulnerable about what we don't know – to ask questions, to seek help, to admit when we're wrong – isn't a weakness but a profound strength that allows us to grow, to learn, and ultimately to become more of who we truly are.

Chapter 4: Confidence vs. Connection: Finding Authenticity in Relationships

If you had met Justin in high school, chances are you might have described him using adjectives like "cocky," "arrogant," or "overconfident." At face value, he was outgoing and loud, and it was often said that he was full of himself. Nothing hurt him more than hearing that. "Full of himself." What a strange expression. If anything, in high school and into his twenties, he was the exact opposite of full of himself. He was empty of himself and full of everyone else. What people didn't see, what he managed to keep hidden, is that the same kid would go home at night, exhausted from pretending all day – pretending not to be hurt by the jabs his friends made about him, pretending not to feel sad that the girl he liked just saw him as a friend, pretending that finding food in his braces at the end of every day wasn't embarrassing, pretending to be confident when he had no idea how confidence even felt below the surface. His facade of overconfidence was him overcompensating for his insecurities, for the parts of himself he felt ashamed of. From a young age, boys are told that they should be self-reliant and self-assured. There's an unspoken expectation of confidence that goes hand in hand with the ability to be stoic. For young boys and teenagers, it's a constant practice of pushing emotions deeper and deeper below the surface until they've mastered the act of playing it cool and keeping their composure. The less you seemed to care, the fewer emotions you had, the more valued and mysterious you were – to not just girls but to guys as well. This disconnect between outward appearance of confidence and inner experience of insecurity leads to profound loneliness. Dr. Niobe Way's book Deep Secrets tells an interesting story. She finds that young boys have really deep friendships when they're eight or nine or ten. They share everything and talk about things that really matter. But boys lose those friendships by age thirteen or fourteen, and by the time she talks to boys who are seventeen or so, they remember those friendships fondly, but also tell her they just don't have them anymore. It's not biological; it's because that fear of being seen as weak, needy, and vulnerable makes them start to pose for those guys and makes them start to pretend they don't feel what they do feel. In 2018, men were more than 3.8 times more likely to die by suicide than women. White males accounted for almost 70 percent of all suicide deaths, and the rate of suicide was highest in middle-aged men. Chances are, you or someone very close to you has been affected firsthand by a man taking his own life. When Justin's friend Kevin Hines attempted to end his life by jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge, he later said: "Once I began to be self-aware and honest about my brain pain, I started to heal. I learned then that a pain shared is a pain halved." True confidence isn't about appearing strong or hiding vulnerabilities; it's about embracing all of who we are – our strengths and our weaknesses, our certainties and our doubts. It's about creating spaces where we can be authentically ourselves, where we can connect with others in meaningful ways, and where we can find the courage to ask for help when we need it. Perhaps the most confident thing we can do is to admit when we're not feeling confident at all, allowing others to see our humanity and in turn, giving them permission to embrace their own.

Chapter 5: Privilege and Power: Confronting Racial and Social Advantage

Kay and Justin became friends through their shared faith. She is a Black woman who exemplifies profound wisdom and light. Unfortunately, like many Black women experience, Kay's impact on Justin's journey with privilege, racism, and racial justice came at a cost to her – a cost she never should have had to pay. Soon after Justin and his wife were married, a small group of six of their friends flew from Los Angeles to Nashville for a wedding. Kay was in that group, and not only was she the only Black woman in the group, she also was the only Black person at the wedding. After the celebration, their group headed out together to explore the nightlife. As they got into the car, Kay began to cry. Something at the wedding had gone completely unnoticed by the rest of them and had deeply hurt her. When they first arrived, each guest was handed a program and a small bag with instructions to toss the contents in the air toward the married couple as they walked up the aisle. At this wedding, however, each bag was filled with fresh cotton that they were to pick apart and toss, like confetti, in celebration of their love. That's right, Kay was being asked to throw in celebration what her ancestors were forced to pick in slavery. Later that night when Kay shared her raw feelings and her experience at the wedding, instead of listening, empathizing, and honoring her, as a group they downplayed the whole situation. With the intention of being a "peacemaker" and bringing "unity," Justin responded to Kay's pain by telling her that when he looks at her, he doesn't see a Black woman, he just sees his friend. He doesn't see color; he sees her heart. In other words, he made her exact point. As a white person, Justin was taught to say that we don't see color, that we don't see our differences, that we treat everyone equally. While this concept of color blindness initially sounds very nice and idealistic to white people, it not only ignores the socialization and foundation on which the United States was built, it also ignores the very rich, beautiful cultures and humanity of people of color. In fact, the statement "I don't see color" from a white person, regardless of how well-intentioned it is, oftentimes comes across to a person of color just as it did to Kay, as "I choose not to see YOU." After they returned home from the trip, Kay emailed the group and in justified anger exclaimed, "That was some fucked up shit." She explained how she expected better of them and how deeply hurt she was by the entire situation. She went on to say, "That night I realized that my dear friends, who aspire to unity in a diverse global society, had no idea what my pain looks like. I was shaking and I was on the same couch as you and you did not see me. You didn't even know to look." It shouldn't have taken George Floyd's death and the countless other deaths that had come before for Justin to pick up the phone and call Kay. It is problematic that it took so much on a societal level, and it is problematic that it cost Kay so much on a personal level for Justin and his wife to call and apologize, for them to see how wrong they were and how deeply loving and profoundly kind Kay's email had truly been. But, regrettably and embarrassingly, it did. The journey toward authentic manhood must include confronting the ways in which our privilege – whether it be male privilege, white privilege, or any other form of advantage – has shaped our experiences and perspectives. It's about acknowledging the ways in which systems of power and oppression intersect, and taking responsibility for our role in either maintaining or dismantling those systems. Perhaps true manhood isn't about power over others, but about using whatever power we have to create a more just and equitable world for all.

Chapter 6: Success Redefined: From Career Ladders to Meaningful Bridges

When Justin was twenty-one years old, he got his first big paycheck as an actor after landing a role as a series regular on a beloved TV series. He will never forget the moment, and the visceral feelings of pride and accomplishment that came with it, when he looked at his bank account and saw six digits for the first time. He was rich!! He had never in his life seen that kind of money, and it would quickly become apparent that he had never in his life seen a budget either. In fact, less than two years later he would have a similar unforgettable moment, except this time he would look at his bank account and again see a bunch of numbers, but this time with a minus sign next to them. After getting those first consistent paychecks as a working actor, Justin felt like he could finally start to measure up, and the only way he knew how to do that was to prove that he had money. So he moved into a nice place with expensive rent, and he bought his dream truck, a fully refurbished '76 Bronco. That truck epitomized what was going on in his life at that time. It was the sexiest truck he had ever seen, and it was probably the least practical truck he could have chosen to drive as a guy who knows nothing about trucks, especially in the stop-and-go traffic of LA. But it represented this ongoing relationship he has with success, with perception versus reality, and with his masculinity. At the same time his show was airing, Justin was doing interviews with magazines and walking an occasional red carpet wearing ridiculous clothes and evidently doing this sort of cool-guy, half-smile pose (he swears he can't find one full-on smiling picture of himself from that time in his life), which makes sense because underneath all of that, he was deteriorating under the pressure of maintaining the illusion of success. The truck looked good, and it caught the attention of both girls and guys (which was arguably more important), but underneath its shiny exterior and its facade of success, the maintenance was a pain in the ass. At twenty-five Justin experienced what he would later consider to be one of the most amazing times in his life. He hit rock bottom. He had just gotten dumped by his girlfriend, he couldn't get an acting job to save his life, he was dropped by his manager, and he had no money to put down for a first and last on his own place. In his heartbreak and desperation, he reached out to two of his best friends, Andy and Adam, and they allowed him to move in with them – or rather, sleep on their couch. At the time, Justin had what he perceived to be nothing to offer. He was jobless, heartbroken, crashing on their couch, not able to contribute financially to anything, and was experiencing a season of depression as a result. And yet those guys genuinely, sincerely valued him. They saw value in him. They encouraged him to stay active, to get off his ass. They loved him and were there for him in such a profound way that it brought him back to life. The things he had been seeking in the perception of success, he began to find in the reality of relationships, connection, and community. A groundbreaking 2019 Success Index study found that 92 percent of respondents thought that others would define success as it relates to money, fame, and power. But while most everyone thinks that other people are basing success off of money and fame, only 10 percent of people surveyed are actually basing their own success on those same criteria. Instead, people are determining the success of their life based on the quality of their relationships, character, and community. What if the career ladder was never intended to be a ladder? What if the measures of success aren't hierarchical in nature? What if the ladder was always meant to be turned on its side – not as a means of climbing higher and higher, but as a bridge connecting us to what, and who, can truly bring the levels of fulfillment that we are seeking?

Chapter 7: Fatherhood: Healing Generational Wounds Through Parenting

"I think I'm pregnant." Emily's words hung in the air of their small apartment. There was no excitement, no celebration – just silence and shock. Justin had just returned from filming, eager to share news about his first Entertainment Tonight appearance. Instead, his world tilted on its axis. They were both mourning the life they thought they would have. At thirty, they had planned for parenthood, but later – when they were more "ready," when their careers were established, when they had checked all the boxes they thought needed checking. This moment forced Justin to confront a terrifying question: How could he parent a child when he still felt like a child himself? How could he raise someone not to be messed up when he still felt messed up? The leisurely inner work he had been doing suddenly became urgent. Fatherhood demanded he accelerate his journey from his head to his heart – from the man he was pretending to be to the man he needed to become. When Emily went into labor, Justin discovered what active support truly meant. For thirty-six hours, he served her in whatever capacity was needed – offering hydration, applying pressure to her back, holding her up in the birthing pool amid all the fluids, being a physical brace for her body. He learned this role not from other men, who rarely talked about birth, but from women – doulas, midwives, friends, and Emily herself. When Maiya was finally born into his hands, he whispered a prayer into her ear through tears, placed her on Emily's belly, and marveled at the miracle he had witnessed. Becoming a father revealed generational patterns Justin hadn't fully recognized. His own father, Sam, had been exceptionally present and affectionate – attending every soccer game, recording every moment, showing love openly. Yet beneath this superhero exterior, Sam carried wounds from his relationship with his father, an Italian immigrant and state senator who worked long hours and never told Sam he loved him. Sam compensated by being everything to Justin that his father hadn't been to him – but this overcompensation created its own pressure, both on Sam and, unknowingly, on Justin. Justin discovered this pattern when his aunt revealed that his grandfather had fallen on hard financial times after losing reelection, eventually working nights as a janitor to support his family. This struggle was kept secret, as his grandfather was too proud to ask for help. Suddenly, Sam's relentless drive for success and financial security made sense – he was living out his life to earn his father's unrequited love while trying to give Justin everything he hadn't received. The wounds of one generation were silently shaping the next. Breaking this cycle became Justin's mission as a father. With his children, Maiya and Maxwell, he created rituals to nurture emotional awareness. They sing a song called "Show Me Your Heart" and recite a mantra: "The strongest muscle in my whole body is my heart. I love my body. My mind. My heart and my soul." One day, his father witnessed this ritual and fought back tears as three generations of Baldoni men sang together. In this moment, Justin glimpsed the multigenerational healing possible when men invite each other to show their hearts. This healing continues as Justin and his father have begun having vulnerable conversations they never had before. Recently, his father texted: "Son, I miss you and I feel distant from you. Can we get coffee soon and just talk?" They are slowly breaking down the invisible wall of masculinity between them, discovering not just their shared humanity but also how to parent from wholeness rather than woundedness. Justin now understands that showing his emotions, struggling, and asking for help don't make him less of a man or father – they simply make him more human, and ultimately, more present for his children.

Summary

Throughout this journey of unmasking masculinity, we've explored the many ways in which societal expectations have shaped our understanding of what it means to be a man. From the pressure to be brave without fear, to the demand to be physically strong, intellectually confident, sexually assured, and financially successful – these expectations have created a narrow box that few, if any, can truly fit into. Yet we continue to try, often at great cost to ourselves and those we love. The truth that emerges from these stories is both simple and profound: we are enough just as we are. Our worth as men – as humans – is not determined by how well we perform masculinity, but by how authentically we live our lives. True strength lies not in suppressing our emotions, but in having the courage to feel them fully. True intelligence comes not from having all the answers, but from being willing to ask the questions. True success is measured not by the size of our bank accounts, but by the depth of our relationships. And true manhood is defined not by how well we fit into a predetermined box, but by how bravely we step outside of it to embrace all of who we are.

About Author

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Justin Baldoni

Justin Baldoni is a devoted husband, father of two, and Bahá’í. He is an actor, director, producer, and the co-founder and co-chair of both Wayfarer Studios and the Wayfarer Foundation. Over the last ten years, Justin has been on a journey to explore masculinity and reimagine what it means to be a man—what it means to be a human—in the world today. He has spoken about his journey with masculinity in his wildly popular TED talk, and his digital series “Man Enough”, as well as on college campuses across America.

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