It’s 1994 and a young boy sneaks into his parents’ bedroom. The air smells faintly of talc and perfume. He makes his way to his mother’s dressing table – a sparse collection of makeup, nothing like the glamorous displays in the magazines. His mother is not your traditional feminine figure; she is strong, stoic, practical. But there in the wardrobe is something magical: an elegant, midnight black and red velvet dress. It is stunning; he is drawn to the soft and delicate material. The pleated skirt is dynamic and layered. The off-the-shoulder neckline fascinates this soft, sensitive and expressive five-year-old boy. He pulls it down from the hanger, unzips it down the back and slips it on. He stares into the dressing table mirror and imagines a world in which he can wear this without consequence.

A loud bang sounds. His father has arrived home from work. The front door is only 10 metres from his parents’ bedroom. Frightened, he pulls the dress down, chaotically throws it back in the cupboard and hurriedly tries to re-dress. He is safe…

This was an all-too-common story for little Linds. He was curious and creative; he was gentle, affectionate and loving. But Linds knew, from as young as three, that these qualities were not what made a real man in country Victoria. He had been caught by his father before and the disgust and disappointment his dad showed still lingers with him today. It was when little Linds wanted a Barbie doll to dress up that he first realised he was not following the masculine script – he learned that if he wanted to be accepted by his father and the rest of the men in his community then he had to hide this part of himself.

My name is Lindsay, but Linds is how I like to be referred to. And that little boy all those many years ago was me.

Even writing this now, I feel the intense emotion of having to hide who I was from such a young age. It came in many forms and it felt like an overwhelming task at times. I policed my own behaviour and expression in nearly every moment of every day. It was exhausting. Then, when I would drop the guard and unintentionally express my true self – the feminine, masculine and everything in between – I would be ridiculed for being too feminine, girly, gay, weak, “a pussy” and all the other gendered and homophobic slurs that my male peers decided to use on any given day. I wasn’t the only one though; as a teenage boy I watched men in my community monitor each other for any sniff of uniqueness, authenticity or creativity. Any behaviour that steered away from the common and traditional script of masculinity – such as brute strength, athleticism, good with girls, emotionless, stoic or unfazed by beauty standards – would instantly be criticised and reprimanded. It was a challenging and confusing time.

Fast forward to 2025 and something is shifting. Slowly, but undeniably. Boys are watching Harry Garside, an Australian Olympic medal-winning boxer, wear skirts and nail polish. They’re buying skincare, fragrance and makeup not just in secret but on full display. Social media is filled with young men experimenting with eyeliner, lip gloss and hair dye. These moments are small rebellions; they are cracks in the walls of traditional masculinity.

But the picture is complex. Alongside the freedom to explore, there is new pressure: the curated, filtered faces of Instagram, the chiseled bodies of TikTok, the algorithm’s relentless standards of beauty. Boys are embracing self-expression, but many are also battling body image issues, anorexia and a different kind of perfectionism. We see this in our workshops, where 90 percent of boys – some as young as 14 – are gym regulars, with intentions that are shallow and image-focused. Boys are also confused. Now that they can express more “traditionally feminine” characteristics without blowback, does that mean that “traditional masculinity” is dead?

We are in a time where the male gaze; once a dominant, defining force, is being questioned, reframed and even dismantled. Female power and gender equality are reshaping the cultural landscape. For boys and men, this brings both liberation and uncertainty. The old rules no longer fit, but the new rules aren’t fully written.

For someone like me, and the many, many other boys who grew up hiding softness like it was a shameful secret, this is an extraordinary opportunity. True equality doesn’t just set women free – it frees men too. It allows boys to be whole, to embrace all parts of themselves, to wear the dress and still be a man, to cry without apology, to find beauty not just in what they see but in how they express it. It is an opportunity for boys to express the full range of the human experience; the strong and soft, the stoic and emotional, the powerful and equitable. All should be welcomed, accepted, understood and celebrated.

Beauty, reimagined, can be a space of connection, of power, of self-acceptance. It can be a place where a five-year-old boy in country Victoria no longer has to drop the dress in fear and panic when the front door opens.

My name is Linds. And I believe the future belongs to the girls and the boys and everyone in between, who might grow up knowing they never have to hide the most beautiful parts of themselves. I am a Social Worker, Facilitator and Project Manager at The Man Cave, an Australian healthy masculinity and preventative mental health charity aiming for a world in which every man has healthy relationships, contributes to his community and reaches his full potential. Because I believe when we work with boys to break free from shame, rigid gender stereotypes and emotional suppression, everyone wins. Including the girls!