There is an old, weathered saying that "manhood is not a destination, but a state of being." To the modern guy sitting in a cubicle in Chicago or London, manhood might feel like a series of checkboxes: career success, physical fitness, providing for a family.

There was a time, not long ago, when "men’s health" was a narrow corridor. On one end, you had the sterile, white-tiled doctor’s office where you went only when something was already broken. On the other, you had the glossy, airbrushed fitness magazines promising six-pack abs in six minutes.

There is a specific kind of silence that hits a man when he sits in his truck after a long shift, the engine ticking as it cools, staring at a garage door that represents thirty years of mortgage payments. In that silence, the brass plaques on the office wall and the digits in the 401(k) often feel…

There is a specific kind of silence that settles into a man’s life somewhere between his thirty-fifth and forty-fifth year. It isn’t the silence of peace, but rather the quiet realization that the machinery is changing. The recovery after a weekend of heavy lifting takes three days instead of…

For decades, the sound of a man’s identity was the rhythmic thud of a hammer, the scratching of a pen on a ledger, or the steady hum of an engine. When two men meet for the first time, the second question asked—almost pulse-quickeningly fast after "What’s your name?"—is "What do you do?"

There is a specific kind of frustration that every man has felt, yet few bother to name. It’s that moment in the middle of sex—perhaps with a woman you’ve pursued for months or a wife you’ve loved for years—where you realize your mind has checked out.

Let’s be honest: walking into a room and trying to gauge a woman’s interest can sometimes feel like trying to defuse a bomb while reading the manual in a language you don’t speak. You don’t want to be the guy who misses a glaring "green light" and goes home wondering what could have been. But you…

There is an old cliché that men don’t like to ask for directions. While that might be a tired trope when it comes to a Sunday drive, there is one area where "winging it" is a guaranteed recipe for failure: the bedroom.

There is a specific kind of silence that occurs when a man who is truly comfortable in his own skin enters a room. It isn’t the loud, grating silence of a bully demanding attention, nor is it the frantic energy of a man trying too hard to be liked. It is a quiet, heavy presence—a sense that this…