The Knife Between Brothers

Why most men never make it through the door—and why that’s where the medicine lives.

“Where a man’s wound is, that is where his genius will be.” — Robert Bly

The scariest part of men’s work isn’t the breathwork. It’s not the shadow work. It’s not even the vulnerability.

It’s walking into a room full of strange men—every one of them wearing the possible mask of a long-buried tormentor.

Most men never make it through that doorway. I know because I almost didn’t.

I’ve had men tell me they arrived 30 minutes early to a group and sat in their car the entire time, debating whether or not to come in. The anxiety leading up to that first gathering is thick. I get it. When I first signed up for an in-person men’s group, I let the fear eat me alive. I convinced myself that these men weren’t here to grow or heal—they were here to dominate, to judge, to expose me.

I assumed they were wolves in sheep's clothing.

Part of that was projection. As an only child, I had no template for healthy brotherhood. Most of my wounds came at the hands of other men. And so, when I finally did walk into that room, I expected to be sized up, dismissed, or devoured.

Instead, I was met with something far more terrifying: presence. Not judgment. Not posturing. Just a group of men, breathing, sitting in silence, waiting to witness me exactly as I was. That’s the medicine no one tells you about—being fully seen by other men, and not having to earn it.

My deepest brother wound happened as a teenager. I had a solid group of friends. We hung out, played sports, watched movies—the usual. Every Wednesday, school got out early. It was our sacred after-school time.

One Wednesday, I found myself alone. I called around, hoping to find the crew. Nothing. Eventually, one of my friends answered. I could hear the laughter and noise in the background.

Naively, I asked if I could come over.

He said no.

Then he put me on speakerphone. Each of my “friends” took turns telling me why they didn’t like me.

I was too immature. Not good at sports. I still played with action figures. I was too weird. (late 90’s code for neurodivergent.)

It was a gut punch. My stomach dropped and clenched. I froze. I felt icy cold fingers wrap around my chest. I shut down. And I sealed the rage deep inside because I didn’t want to lose my temper. Every part of me was declared wrong.

After that, they ghosted me. We never spoke again.

From that day on, I became a chameleon. I studied social dynamics like my life depended on it. Who was the alpha? Who was the scapegoat? What was their humor, their hierarchy, their interests? Once I figured it out, I created a persona and wore it like armor.

And it worked. I had plenty of friends. But none of them knew me. They knew "Stew" — not Matt. My nickname was a placeholder for the real me that I buried.

My nervous system adapted. High alert at all times. I became a master people-pleaser. My coping mechanisms? Food until my stomach hurt. Drugs. Alcohol. And yes, self-harm well into my twenties. I never wanted to hurt others, so I turned all my shame and rage inward. I became the poster child for unhealed masculinity.

The Myth We Inherited

The brother wound tells you emotions make you weak. That if you cry, you’re soft. If you feel, you're feminine. And if you're feminine, you're less than a man. Dominance is currency. Connection is weakness. We’re fed a myth that men are better off alone—the lone wolf fantasy.

But that fantasy is a trap.

Why? Because it’s easier to control isolated men.

But the cost? Suicide. Addiction. Rage. Emotional constipation. Mental collapse.

That’s the brother wound. The belief that other men are your competition, not your companions.

That the only way to survive is to dominate or disappear.

And yeah, I carried that wound too. For years, I judged other men for being vulnerable. I silenced them. I shamed them. Because I thought they were weak. Because I was still hurting. Because I hadn’t yet taken ownership of the ways I had also caused pain.

The first time I felt safe with men was at a hippie commune in New Hampshire. There were fifteen of us. I was sweating with anxiety.

But one by one, the men shared. Their pain. Their fears. Their truth. And the rest of us listened. No fixing. No judgment. Just presence.

When it was my turn, I cried. Hard. I shared about my insane level of discomfort—the numb tongue and 'roided up butterflies bouncing in my belly—and then ended it with, “Wait... you guys like me just because I’m here? I don’t have to make you laugh or fix you? Just me being myself is enough?”

They all nodded. And then, after the circle, they each gave me a heart hug. They held me. Not to save me, but to show me I was safe.

That day changed everything.

Walking Through the Door

If you’re afraid to show up to a men’s group, let that be your introduction.

Say: “I’m terrified to be here.”

Say: “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Say: “I’m here because I want something different.”

That’s all it takes. Every man in the room has felt the same fear.

There are two kinds of family: the one you’re born into, and the one you choose. Men’s work reminded me that brotherhood isn’t just real—it’s sacred.

Avoiding the wound gives it all the power. Walking toward it? That’s where the healing begins.

Snake handlers build immunity by micro dosing venom. This is the same. It’s exposure therapy for the soul.

The same knife that wounded you can become the tool that carves you into who you’re meant to be—if you have the courage to hold it differently.

So, brother, do something hard today.

Message a male friend. Share something vulnerable. Ask to be heard, not fixed. Show up to a group.

Join the Wildman Brotherhood.

This is why it exists. A space where the knife becomes the salve. Where being seen replaces being sized up. If you’re ready, the door is open. The only thing required is your presence.

Not to get it right. Not to be perfect. Just to be seen.

You don’t need a script. Just say:

“Hey, I’m Matt, and I’m really uncomfortable right now, but I wanted to give this a try.”

That’s enough.

That’s healing.

That’s the start of something new.

The brother wound was forged in betrayal. It can be healed in presence.