Over the years, many important voices in the field of men’s issues have done careful, courageous, and often overlooked work. Too often, that work receives little public recognition despite the profound impact it has had on understanding the lives of men and boys.

I have been thinking that one small way to help address that is to occasionally highlight and honor some of the researchers, clinicians, writers, and advocates who have contributed meaningful insights to these conversations. Denise Hines and Emily Douglas immediately came to mind.

Their work has helped shine light on areas of male suffering that were too often ignored, minimized, or simply unseen. I hope to continue doing more pieces like this from time to time as a way of acknowledging those who have helped move these conversations forward. Let me know in the comments if you have suggestions for other contributors to highlight.

 

For many years, the public narrative around domestic abuse was presented with great certainty: women were the victims, and men were the perpetrators. That message became deeply embedded in the media, public policy, academic culture, and even parts of the research world itself. Questioning the narrative was often treated with suspicion or hostility.

What was needed was not outrage or counter-ideology, but careful research. What was needed were solid, research-based indicators showing that male victims were a real and measurable part of the human landscape of domestic abuse.

That is the path Denise Hines and Emily Douglas took. Their work did not rely on slogans or political framing. It relied on careful observation, rigorous methodology, and a willingness to look directly at experiences that much of the culture preferred not to see. Because of that, their work has become some of the most important research we have for understanding male victims—not as abstractions or talking points, but as human beings.

Starting Where Good Research Starts: Who Are These Men?
One of the most important decisions Hines and Douglas made early on was methodological. Instead of trying to infer male victimization from general population surveys—where men often underreport or minimize—they looked directly at men who were actively seeking help for abuse from female partners. That matters because it answers a question that is often left vague: What does male victimization look like when it is serious enough that a man actually reaches out? What they found was not trivial. These were not men complaining about minor conflicts or occasional arguments. These were men reporting patterns of coercive control, physical violence, psychological abuse, and, in many cases, fear. In other words, when men do come forward, they often look much more like what we already recognize as victims.

The Myth of “It Doesn’t Affect Men That Much”
One of the quiet assumptions in the culture has been that even if men are victims, the impact is somehow less. Hines’s and Douglas’s work challenges that directly. Across multiple studies, they found that male victims—especially those who seek help—show significant levels of psychological distress, including symptoms consistent with post-traumatic stress, depression, anxiety, and hypervigilance—the same kinds of responses we would expect in any person exposed to chronic interpersonal harm. This is one of those moments where good research does something very simple but very powerful. It removes the ambiguity. It tells us this is not harmless. It leaves a mark. Once that becomes clear, it becomes much harder to dismiss.

The Hidden Barrier: Trying to Get Help
If there is one area where Hines and Douglas’s work is especially illuminating, it is here. They did not just ask whether men are abused. They asked what happens when they try to get help. The answers are sobering. Men in their studies reported not being believed, being assumed to be the perpetrator, being laughed at or dismissed, being turned away from services, and being told, directly or indirectly, that those services were not for them.This is where the research begins to intersect with something many clinicians quietly observe. It is not just that men hesitate to seek help. It is that they often have good reason to expect that help will not be there. And when that expectation is confirmed even once, it becomes a powerful deterrent.

A System Built With a Different Default
They also looked at the structure of services themselves. What they found was not necessarily overt hostility, but something more subtle and, in many ways, more consequential. Domestic violence services were largely designed with a default image of the victim: a woman, often with children, needing protection from a male partner. That model has helped many people. But it also creates blind spots. When a man walks into that same system, he does not match the template. And when someone does not match the template, systems often do not know what to do with them. Their research shows that male victims can find themselves in a kind of institutional limbo—not fully recognized, not fully excluded, but not truly served.

Severity Matters: This Is Not Just “Mutual Conflict”
Another important contribution of their work is clarity around severity and risk. There has been a long-standing debate in the literature about whether partner violence is symmetrical or asymmetrical, minor or severe, mutual or one-sided. Hines and Douglas cut through much of that by focusing on men who are clearly on the receiving end of serious abuse. While their core studies focus on help-seeking men (rather than general prevalence), their findings align with a larger body of research showing that a meaningful minority of men experience serious partner violence—often bidirectional in milder cases, but with clear patterns of one-sided severe abuse in the cases that reach crisis levels. Their research identifies patterns of coercive control, incidents of severe physical violence, cases involving weapons or threats, and situations where men report fear for their safety. That matters because it shifts the conversation. It is no longer about abstract percentages or ideological positions. It becomes about real cases where the question is not whether something happened, but how serious it was.

The Overlooked Layers: Sexual Victimization, Children, and Legal/Administrative Aggression
Two areas where Hines and Douglas’s work has been especially important, but less widely discussed, are sexual victimization and children’s exposure to abuse in these households. Their research shows that some male victims also report sexual coercion or aggression, something that is rarely acknowledged in public discourse. And in households where men are victims, children are often present and affected. They have also highlighted how some perpetrators use legal and administrative tools—threats of false accusations, restraining orders, or manipulation of child custody—as instruments of control. These “hidden” tactics compound trauma for male victims and have direct consequences for their children. This broadens the frame. It reminds us that when male victimization is ignored, it is not only men who are overlooked.

Recent Milestones
Hines and Douglas’s influence continues to grow. In 2025 they co-edited (along with Louise Dixon) The Routledge Handbook of Men’s Victimization in Intimate Relationships, an international synthesis drawing on contributors from five continents. Hines and Douglas have also led important international comparisons of help-seeking experiences across English-speaking countries. More recently, Hines received a $1 million grant to study male victims from Black and Latino communities—groups that face additional layers of stigma and barriers.

Positive Developments
Encouragingly, their work—along with that of other researchers—has informed training for law enforcement (including FBI sessions) and helped expand awareness. Some regions have begun piloting male-inclusive services, though systemic change remains slow.

What Their Work Does Not Do
This may be just as important. Their research does not argue that men suffer more than women. It does not deny female victimization. It does not rely on inflated or speculative statistics to make its case. Instead, it does something much harder to dismiss. It asks us to look carefully, measure clearly, and report honestly. What emerges is not a counter-narrative so much as a more complete picture.

Why This Matters Now
There is a real temptation, especially in today’s climate, to respond to one-sided narratives with equal and opposite claims. But that path is fragile. When the evidence is stretched, it eventually snaps back. And when it does, the people we were trying to advocate for can be dismissed right along with it. That is why work like Denise Hines and Emily Douglas matters so much. It gives us something solid. It allows us to say that male victims exist in meaningful numbers, that some suffer severe and traumatic abuse, that many face real barriers to being recognized and helped, and that systems are not always equipped to respond to them—without exaggeration, distortion, or apology.

A Different Kind of Clarity
In the end, what their work offers is not outrage. It offers clarity. And clarity, if we are willing to sit with it, has a quiet power of its own. Because once you truly see something, it becomes very hard to go back to not seeing it. We owe Denise Hines and Emily Douglas a real debt of gratitude for having the courage and persistence to help us see more clearly.

Dixon, L., Hines, D. A., & Douglas, E. M. (Eds.). (2025). The Routledge handbook of men’s victimization in intimate relationships. Routledge. https://doi.org/10.4324/9781003144939

Hines, D. A., & Douglas, E. M. (2016). Sexual aggression experiences among male victims of physical partner violence: Prevalence, severity, and health correlates for male victims and their children. Archives of Sexual Behavior, 45(5), 1133–1151. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10508-014-0393-0

Douglas, E. M., & Hines, D. A. (2016). Children’s exposure to partner violence in homes where men seek help for partner violence victimization. Journal of Family Violence, 31, 473–485. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10896-015-9783-x

Hines, D. A., & Douglas, E. M. (2015). Health problems of partner violence victims: Comparing help-seeking men to a population-based sample. American Journal of Preventive Medicine, 48(2), 136–144. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.amepre.2014.08.022

Hines, D. A., & Douglas, E. M. (2009). Women’s use of intimate partner violence against men: Prevalence, implications, and consequences.

Douglas, E. M., & Hines, D. A. (2011). The helpseeking experiences of men who sustain intimate partner violence: An overlooked population and implications for practice. Journal of Family Violence, 26, 473–485. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10896-011-9382-4

Hines, D. A., & Douglas, E. M. (2011). Symptoms of posttraumatic stress disorder in men who sustain intimate partner violence: A study of helpseeking and community samples. Psychology of Men & Masculinity, 12(2), 112–127. https://doi.org/10.1037/a0022983

Emily had always thought of herself as a thoughtful woman.

Not exceptional.
Not revolutionary.
Just decent.

She cared deeply about people. She volunteered occasionally at the animal shelter. She checked on her aging parents every week. She worked hard, loved her children fiercely, and tried to be kind whenever she could.

But over the years, something began changing inside her.

At first it barely registered.

A professor during graduate school casually remarked:
“One of the major problems in society is feminine emotionality. Women are simply too irrational to lead effectively.”

The room laughed softly.

Emily laughed too, though something about it stung.

Over time the messages became more frequent.

Television shows portrayed women as unstable, manipulative, shallow, emotionally chaotic, and intellectually weak.

Articles circulated explaining how femininity itself was harmful.

Social media repeated endless variations of the same themes:
Women are too emotional.
Women are manipulative.
Women are needy.
Women are irrational.
Women are weak.
Women are the problem.

At first Emily resisted the messages internally.

But repetition has power.

And gradually she began monitoring herself.

At work she became hesitant to speak passionately during meetings because she feared being perceived as emotional.

When she disagreed with someone, she carefully softened every sentence.

“I may be wrong, but…”
“This might sound silly…”
“Sorry, I just feel like…”

She apologized constantly.

Not because she lacked intelligence.
But because she had begun feeling vaguely discredited before she even spoke.

One afternoon during a strategy meeting, Emily became excited about an idea and started explaining it enthusiastically.

A male coworker smiled politely and said:
“Careful, Emily. Don’t get emotional on us.”

The room chuckled lightly.

Emily laughed too.

But afterward, sitting alone in her car, she suddenly realized how exhausted she had become.

Exhausted from managing perceptions.
Exhausted from trying to appear rational enough.
Strong enough.
Detached enough.
Logical enough.

The strangest part was that everyone around her acted as though this was normal.

Podcasts discussed the dangers of female emotionality.

Experts explained how women manipulated men through tears and victimhood.

News panels blamed feminine weakness for social decline.

Academics described women as biologically unsuited for leadership because emotion clouded judgment.

The messages came from everywhere.

And eventually Emily began absorbing them.

Not consciously.

But quietly.

A low-grade shame settled into her.

She second-guessed her instincts.

She became suspicious of her own emotions.

When she cried, she felt embarrassed.

When she wanted reassurance, she felt weak.

When she became attached to people, she wondered if something was wrong with her.

Even motherhood became psychologically confusing.

The very qualities that once gave her dignity —
nurturance,
attachment,
empathy,
emotional sensitivity,
protectiveness,
warmth —
were increasingly framed as liabilities.

Over time Emily became more careful socially.

She edited herself constantly.

She monitored her tone of voice.

She avoided expressing strong emotion in professional settings.

She became hyperaware of how women were perceived.

And eventually something painful began happening:

She started losing trust in her own goodness.

One evening her teenage daughter came home from school upset after hearing boys joking online about women being irrational and manipulative.

“Mom,” she asked quietly,
“Do you think women are weak?”

Emily felt something twist inside her chest.

Because she realized her daughter had been breathing the same cultural air.

She looked at her for a long moment.

“No,” she said softly.
“I think women are human.”

Her daughter nodded silently.

But Emily stayed awake long after everyone had gone to bed.

Because for the first time she fully understood what broad cultural accusation does to people.

It does not merely offend them.

It reshapes them.

It teaches them to monitor themselves constantly.

To distrust their natural traits.

To feel morally suspect for characteristics tied to their identity.

To carry shame they did not earn.

And worst of all, it slowly erodes the sense that their humanity will be seen fairly.

Emily eventually realized something important.

If a culture spent decades describing women as emotionally defective, dangerous, manipulative, and inherently harmful, most people would immediately recognize it as prejudice.

They would understand the psychological damage instantly.

The anxiety.
The self-monitoring.
The shame.
The silence.
The alienation.

But somehow people struggle to recognize those same dynamics when the target changes.

And perhaps that blindness itself is part of the problem.

Mark had always thought of himself as a decent man.

Not perfect. Just decent.

He worked hard, paid his bills, coached little league when his son was younger, helped neighbors when storms knocked trees down, and tried to stay out of trouble. The people who knew him well would have described him as calm, reliable, and thoughtful.

But over the years, something began changing inside him.

At first it was subtle.

A comment at work during a diversity seminar:
“Men need to understand how toxic masculinity harms everyone.”

Mark remembered sitting quietly in his chair, not entirely sure what to do with the sentence.

Part of him thought:
“Well, sure…some men can be destructive.”

But another part quietly wondered:
What exactly does that have to do with me?

He said nothing.

Over time the messages became more frequent.

Television commercials portrayed fathers as incompetent buffoons.

Articles circulated online explaining how masculinity itself was dangerous.

Social media repeated variations of the same themes:
Men are privileged.
Men are emotionally stunted.
Men are unsafe.
Men are the problem.

Mark noticed something strange happening inside himself.

He began monitoring his behavior.

At work, he became careful around younger women. He avoided closing the office door during meetings. He became cautious about compliments, humor, or even casual friendliness.

Not because he wanted anything inappropriate.

But because he had begun to feel vaguely dangerous.

One afternoon a younger female coworker was struggling to carry several heavy boxes to her car. Mark almost offered to help, then hesitated.

What if she thought he was being intrusive?

He hated that thought.

So he stayed silent and watched her struggle from the window.

That night he sat in his truck longer than usual after pulling into the driveway.

Something about that moment bothered him deeply.

Not because he had been accused of anything.

But because he was beginning to feel accused all the time.

The strangest part was that nobody around him seemed to notice.

His wife occasionally repeated things she read online about men needing to “do better.” His daughter came home from college talking about patriarchal systems and toxic masculinity. His son became quieter each year, increasingly withdrawn, spending more time alone in his room.

One evening during dinner, his daughter laughed while describing “mediocre white men” in one of her classes.

Everyone smiled awkwardly.

Mark smiled too.

But something sank inside him.

Because he realized he no longer knew how men were allowed to speak about themselves without sounding guilty.

The rules had changed.

If he defended men, he risked sounding defensive.

If he objected to the stereotypes, that itself could be interpreted as proof of fragility.

If he stayed silent, the accusations simply stood unanswered.

It was a trap with no clear exit.

And over time the psychological effects accumulated.

Mark became more withdrawn socially.

He stopped mentoring younger employees at work because he feared misunderstandings.

He became hesitant around his daughter’s friends, careful not to appear too warm, too interested, too present.

He second-guessed harmless interactions.

He edited his speech constantly.

He learned to scan conversations for danger.

Most painfully, he began losing trust in his own goodness.

Not consciously at first.

But gradually.

A kind of low-grade shame settled into him.

The culture around him spoke about men as though male violence, selfishness, domination, and emotional inadequacy were the defining truths of masculinity. And even though Mark knew intellectually that this was unfair, emotionally the repetition began wearing grooves into his mind.

Human beings absorb stories.

Especially stories repeated endlessly.

One night Mark’s son quietly asked him something unexpected.

“Dad…do you think men are bad?”

The question hit him like a punch to the chest.

Because he realized his son had been breathing the same cultural air.

Mark looked at the boy for a long moment before answering.

“No,” he said softly.
“I think men are human.”

His son nodded but said nothing else.

Later that night Mark sat awake thinking about how strange things had become.

For most of his life, masculinity had meant responsibility.

Protecting people.
Working hard.
Providing stability.
Fixing problems.
Controlling impulses.
Sacrificing quietly.

Now the very traits that once gave him dignity often felt morally suspect.

Strength was reframed as domination.
Leadership as control.
Confidence as threat.
Male sexuality as danger.
Stoicism as pathology.

Even his silence was interpreted negatively.

And yet the men he knew were mostly ordinary human beings carrying enormous burdens quietly.

The electrician restoring power during storms.
The exhausted father working overtime.
The plumber fixing broken pipes at midnight.
The mechanic.
The farmer.
The soldier.
The truck driver.
The lonely divorced father sitting silently in a small apartment missing his children.

These were not monsters.

They were human beings.

Imperfect.
Necessary.
Often unseen.

Mark eventually realized that one of the deepest wounds caused by broad cultural accusations is not simply anger.

It is alienation.

A growing sense that your humanity is no longer being viewed clearly.

And perhaps worst of all:
the fear that your son may inherit that same burden.

Can you relate to Mark? What have we done to our men and boys?

Men are good, as are you.