Rep. Adam Kinzinger

This is absolutely insane. Trumps love of Russia is stunting the US military’s ability to modernize.

Trump drags feet on drone deal with Ukraine, mystifying experts The Trump administration’s hesitancy in signing a major drone deal with Ukraine is slowing the U.S. military down in an area where it’s already trying to play catch-up. Even as Ukrainian President …

“Hey Mr. President, sir, your highness, the war has caused record gas prices, inflation, and uh…. A stalemate and our Allies don’t trust us. Oh ya we have an election in a few months and uh… not looking good”

POTUS: OUR REFLECTIVE POOL IS FIXED AND ITS TALLER THAN BUILDINGS

I’m going to say something that will probably challenge you, or anger you, or make you go “hmmm, interesting.” Its something I get around to discussing in most of my speeches to many wide eyes and ultimately, many coming up to me and thanking me for my honesty: masculinity matters. It’s worth defending. And we need to be a lot louder about it.

But here’s the catch. What’s being sold as masculinity right now — especially on the right — isn’t masculinity. It’s a cheap knockoff. It’s a costume. And the men wearing it are doing real damage to real people (especially men) while calling it strength.

I want to talk about that. All of it. Including the part where the left handed them the keys.

Let me describe the version of manhood that’s currently being celebrated in certain corners of this country.

Be loud. Be obnoxious. Overpower people with your opinions before they can finish a sentence. Physical size is dominance. Volume is confidence. Cruelty is strength. Trump attacking Kaitlin Collins, or commenting on physical appearance, is this in practice.

Put women in their place — in the home, serving you, grateful for the arrangement. Emotion is weakness. Vulnerability is surrender. If you cry, you’re less of a man.

You might have heard that I got emotional while questioning Capitol Police officers about what they endured on January 6th. Brave men who bled to protect the building where American democracy lives. And yes — I got choked up. They call me “Cryin’ Adam” for it. Like it’s a slur. Like being moved by courage and sacrifice is something to be ashamed of.

Think about that. What kind of man is unmoved by that? What kind of emptiness does that take?

The version they’re selling also includes going to the gym — which, fine…(I am a bit of a gym rat)— but as a backdrop for racism, or contempt, or the performance of toughness. It includes a guy at the top of the political food chain who has built his entire brand around punching down. On the weak. On the vulnerable. On anyone who can’t punch back.

They call this masculinity.

I call it insecurity with a fitness routine.

Real men fight. I believe that completely.

But they fight for something. For a cause. For the person who can’t fight for themselves. Real strength isn’t used to take — it’s used to protect. The guy who steps between a bully and his target, even when there’s nothing in it for him — that’s a man. The soldier who throws himself on a gr***de so his brothers survive — that’s a man. The father who spends every Saturday coaching little league not because he wants the credit, but because those kids needed someone to show up — that’s a man.

Here’s something nobody talks about: it’s actually harder to do a good thing and not need the recognition. I say that with a deep regret sometimes….I was a politician after all, our practice is built on getting credit. Any decent person can be good when people are watching. The real test is what you do when nobody’s keeping score. That’s where character lives.

Real men punch up, not down. It takes nothing to mock someone weaker than you. It takes everything to challenge someone more powerful. That asymmetry is the whole ballgame.

Real men provide for their families. That’s not an antiquated idea — it’s a beautiful one. But “providing” doesn’t mean controlling. There is a massive difference between a man who works hard so his wife can stay home with their kids if that’s what they want, and a man who decides she doesn’t have the right to leave. One is love. The other is a cage.

Good masculinity makes space. It says: if staying home is what makes you thrive, I’ll do everything I can to make that possible. And it also says: if going back to work is what makes you whole, I’m behind you. Your flourishing is my business, because you matter to me — not because I need to manage you.

A man who needs to keep his partner small to feel big isn’t a provider. He’s afraid.

I must admit here: I’m not a guru in practice all the time.

But Let’s Be Honest About How We Got Here
I’m not going to stand here and yell about all of this without being fair. Because if I’m not fair, I’m just yelling into the wind.

Over the last twenty years, the term “toxic masculinity” got repeated so often, and in so many contexts, that it stopped being a description of a behavior and started sounding like a description of men. Full stop.

I remember a Gillette commercial. It’s burned into my brain. “Is this the best a man can get?” And it showed dads and husbands being abusive, dismissive, horrible. I’m being honest — it made me sick. It made me angry. I’m a good man. I know a lot of good men. And watching that felt like being told we were all suspects in a crime we didn’t commit.

That feeling was real. And I think a lot of men felt it.

Young men especially. They grew up hearing that their instincts were dangerous, that their energy needed to be managed, that masculinity itself was something to apologize for. And the people who should have responded by defending healthy masculinity — by saying “yes, there’s a toxic version, and here’s the real thing” — largely didn’t. We weren’t loud enough. We ceded the ground.

And nature abhors a vacuum.

So Andrew Tate shows up. And he speaks directly to the part of those young men that feels homeless. He tells them their instincts aren’t wrong — the world that tried to shame them is wrong. He gives them belonging and identity and a sense of power. And it’s poison pretending to be medicine. It’s a hollow dopamine spike, and like drugs, feels good but leave you feeling empty, hollow, and in need of another hit.

But here’s the thing: poison that tastes sweet sells when you’re starving. Those young men were starving for someone to tell them that being a man is good, actually. That strength and courage and protection are virtues. That they don’t have to be ashamed of who they are.

We left them out there hungry and then acted surprised when they ate what was available.

That’s on us.

To the men reading this — especially the young ones:

Think hard about what healthy masculinity looks like. Not what Twitter says. Not what a guy with a Lambo in a Dubai hotel room says. Think about the men you’ve actually respected in your life. The ones who were steady when things were hard. The ones who told you the truth when it would have been easier to tell you what you wanted to hear. The ones who never needed to make someone else feel small.

Then practice it. Every day. In the small moments — the ones nobody sees. That’s where it’s built.

And then defend it. Out loud. When the loud, obnoxious, punching-down version comes into view — say something. Don’t let it stand as the definition. Don’t let a generation of young men think that cruelty is strength and control is love.

Real masculinity isn’t under attack from feminists or the left or cultural elites. Real masculinity is under attack from the people claiming to defend it while performing a grotesque imitation of it.

We know the difference.

It’s past time to say so.

There was a time not too long ago when the men who held the office of The President of the United States, no matter how flawed, tried to respect it and act in a way that was worthy of the office. But yesterday on live TV was another example of how far our collective standards for the man currently holding that office have fallen.

I was on CNNs “The Arena” yesterday when we interrupted to cover Trump in the Oval Office... and what happened there — with Trump turning on Kaitlan Collins in the middle of a press briefing — was not surprising. That’s the problem.

Trump was being asked about his abandoned “Anti-Weaponization Fund,” a Department of Justice initiative he had claimed would address the alleged persecution of his supporters. It was a legitimate question deserving a direct answer. Instead, when Collins asked about the status of the apparently abandoned $1.8 billion fund, it didn’t take long for Trump to get testy. His response: “I’d have to ask the lawyers. I don’t know.” That was it. The man who created the fund, who held it up as a monument to fighting injustice, couldn’t say whether it was alive or dead.

Collins, to her great credit, didn’t let it go. She prodded: “But what’s your decision on it?” That follow-up — calm, professional, simple — is what real journalism looks like. Not a gotcha. Just accountability. The kind of question that requires an actual answer.

What came next was a pattern we’ve seen before. Trump turned his attention to Collins, calling CNN “crooked as hell” and “a very corrupt organization,” then made it personal. “A corrupt reporter standing right there, never smiles,” he said. “You never see a young, beautiful woman who never smiles. I never see a smile on her face.” Then came the escalation: “I see her standing there with hatred in her eyes, like she has hatred, because we had borders, because we have a strong military, because we cut our taxes.”

Collins didn’t flinch. When Trump said she “was a conservative from Alabama” as a dig, she simply replied: “I’m still from Alabama, Sir.” No theatrics. No wounded expression. No attempt to curry favor. She was there to do a job, and she did it — even as the most powerful person in the world attacked her appearance, her character, and her network to her face.

This is not the first time. On February 3, 2026, when Collins questioned Trump about the Epstein Files, Trump snapped at her calling her “the worst reporter.” He frequently makes comments about her appearance and slams CNN’s reporting, and Vice President Vance called those comments “so perceptive.” The attacks on Collins — always focused on how she looks, whether she smiles, whether she’s grateful enough — reveal something that deserves to be said plainly: the standard applied to women in that briefing room is different. Men who challenge him get attacked on substance. Women who challenge him get told to smile.

Between Collins and Scott Pelley, we saw two versions of the same thing: journalists who prepared, pressed, and didn’t perform submission when things got uncomfortable. That’s not courage anymore — it shouldn’t have to be. It should be the baseline. The fact that it stands out so sharply tells you how low the bar has fallen elsewhere.

Because while Collins was holding her ground in the Oval Office, somewhere else in the media landscape, a network has fired most of its 60 Minutes crew in what looks uncomfortably like an audition for Trump’s approval. Others lob softballs calibrated not to inform the public but to avoid losing access. The contrast is not subtle.

What struck me most — and what perhaps should alarm all of us — is how unsurprised we were. The President of the United States told a professional journalist, on camera, in the Oval Office, that she had hatred in her eyes and should smile more. And the reaction, largely, was a shrug. We have normalized this. We have accepted that press briefings are now partly performance art for the president’s grievances, that female journalists must absorb personal attacks as a cost of doing business, that the press corps will absorb the body blow and keep going.

They keep going. But fewer and fewer of them exist.

That’s why independent journalism — spaces like this Substack — matter more now than at any point in recent memory. Not as a replacement for the major networks, but as a reminder of what the thing is supposed to be. No access to protect. No advertiser to appease. No corporate parent weighing whether tough coverage costs them a regulatory favor. Just the story, the question, and the willingness to follow up — even when someone powerful tells you to be quiet and smile.

Collins didn’t smile. She did her job. So should we all.

- Adam