Fleetwood Mac’s real breakup story: Death before motherhood



Stevie Nicks has decided to “weigh in” on abortion. In a recent interview with the Center for Reproductive Rights, she described how an unwanted pregnancy — conceived during her years of promiscuity — led to an abortion she now defends as necessary for her career.

You might remember Stevie Nicks. She’s the former Fleetwood Mac singer who chose to end her child’s life to preserve fame and fortune. A few years later, the dysfunctional group fell apart anyway, torn by jealousy and resentment. Nicks sacrificed her child for an illusion of success — and lost it all.

The idols of the 1960s — unrestrained desire, sexual libertinism, and the worship of self — have produced nothing but loneliness, guilt, and moral ruin.

“I got pregnant, how could this be? I have an IUD,” Nicks recalled. “Fleetwood Mac is big, and it would have destroyed the band.” She remembered thinking, “Everybody kept asking, ‘Why won’t someone do something?’ I thought, I have a platform, I tell a good story, maybe I should do something.”

She told a story, all right — a horror story. In her own words, she chose abortion not because her life was in danger but because she feared an awkward confrontation with her ex-lover and bandmate Lindsey Buckingham. “Having a child with Don Henley,” she said, “would not have gone over well in Fleetwood Mac, with Lindsey and me. ... It would have been a nightmare for me to go through.”

So a child died to spare a rock star an emotionally uncomfortable conversation.

The moral wreckage of ‘free love’

Nicks’ confession is more than a personal tragedy; it’s a parable of an era. The generation that preached “free love” is now paying the bill. The idols of the 1960s — unrestrained desire, sexual libertinism, and the worship of self — have produced nothing but loneliness, guilt, and moral ruin.

The abortion Nicks defends didn’t liberate her. It enslaved her to a lie — that personal freedom justifies killing the innocent. The band she protected disintegrated. Her fame faded. And the moral emptiness she embraced has followed her into old age.

The irony is that this rebellion against “patriarchal control” delivered precisely what the so-called patriarchy wanted: women stripped of prudence and virtue, persuaded to destroy what men once had to protect. The revolutionaries of “free love” preached empowerment while handing men a permission slip for irresponsibility. Men couldn’t believe their luck.

A real-life trolley problem

Philosophers use the “trolley problem” hypothetical to explore moral choices — sacrificing one life to save others from a runaway trolley. Nicks faced her own real-life version. One track held her child’s life; the other, her fame and comfort. She threw the switch. An innocent child died. Her fame soon followed.

The members of Fleetwood Mac later turned on one another, proof that the god she served — success — wasn’t worth the price.

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A reckoning awaits

Jordan Peterson recently refused to entertain a student’s hypothetical about lying to save Jews in World War II, saying he’d never live in a way that forced such a choice. Virtue prevents moral traps before they arise. Stevie Nicks created her own trap through promiscuity and “solved” it by ending a human life.

But Nicks’ reckoning doesn’t end with the interview. Her child’s soul, like all souls, lives on. One day she will face that child — and the creator who gave that child life. When asked why she ended it, her only honest answer will be: for fame, for money, and to avoid a hard conversation.

That conversation will be harder still when she faces God Himself. For her sake — and for those tempted to follow her path — one hopes she repents and seeks the forgiveness found only in Christ, while there is still time.

The thoroughly unimpressive Mr. Fuentes



Tucker Carlson’s interview with Nick Fuentes was supposed to be explosive. It wasn’t.

Far from normalizing Fuentes or advancing his strange brand of “right-wing” politics, the two-hour conversation exposed him as a shallow, aggrieved figure without the intellect or maturity to lead anything. Carlson didn’t destroy Fuentes with debate. He did something worse: He made him boring.

Fuentes built his notoriety as a young “influencer” who mixes nationalism with online provocation. He’s outspokenly racist, anti-Semitic, and obsessed with pushing the limits of shock. And he’s managed to attract a following among disaffected young men — the “Groypers.”

Fuentes’ interview marks his peak — and his decline. Once the outrage fades, he’ll return to obscurity.

In recent years, Fuentes has tried to rebrand himself as something somewhat more serious. He talks about immigration breaking working families, foreign wars enriching elites, and a culture that mocks masculinity. Those themes resonate because they tap real frustrations that many Americans share.

But Fuentes offers no coherent moral or political vision. Others — better read, more disciplined, and far less toxic — make similar arguments with insight and integrity. The late Charlie Kirk, for example, famously wanted nothing to do with Fuentes and his followers for precisely that reason.

The grudge-filled path

Carlson’s interview focused less on ideas than on Fuentes’ grievances. He recounted his early days as a libertarian campaigning for Ted Cruz in 2015, his shift to Trumpism, and his viral rise after a debate with a leftist opponent. Soon he was clashing with prominent conservatives, especially the Daily Wire’s Ben Shapiro.

According to Fuentes, Shapiro and his allies sabotaged his career and drove him into exile on the “dark web.” At no point does Fuentes wonder whether Shapiro recognized instability and immaturity in him — or simply concluded that he wasn’t worth the investment.

Like many in his Gen Z cohort, Fuentes mistakes online engagement for substance. Without outrage, he has nothing. He’s poorly educated, reads little, and shrugs off legitimate criticism. The result is a young man trapped in perpetual adolescence, angry that the world won’t take him seriously.

Carlson’s indulgence

Carlson tries to humanize Fuentes, appealing to Christian charity and the value of learning from failure. But Fuentes clings to his score-settling. His list of enemies includes not just Shapiro but Charlie Kirk, Joe Kent, Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene (R-Ga.) — and even Carlson himself, though he gets a temporary reprieve for offering the platform.

Carlson also attempts to rationalize Fuentes’ anti-Semitism, giving him space to “clarify.” Fuentes insists he doesn’t hate Jews personally — he just opposes Judaism as a “force against Western civilization.” He repeats conspiracy theories about Jewish control of institutions and denies the Holocaust.

Carlson pushes back, but only mildly. Both men protest that they “don’t hate Jews” and have Jewish friends, as if that were exculpatory. It isn’t. The exchange casts neither in a good light.

Empty provocateurs

The rest of the interview dissolves into incoherence. Fuentes casually praises Joseph Stalin, of all people, before the conversation fizzles. Carlson’s attempt to recast Fuentes as a misunderstood outsider backfires. The result is a portrait of a man whose only real claim to relevance is being disliked — and even that feels undeserved.

Carlson’s indulgence of fringe figures is becoming a pattern. Andrew Tate. Darryl Cooper. Now Fuentes. Each enjoys a sizeable online following built on provocation and grievance. And each, when pressed, collapses into self-pity and incoherence. These men are charlatans and grifters who don’t challenge the establishment; they merely rehearse falsehoods and conspiracy theories to raise their profiles among mostly lonely, disaffected young men.

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The decline of two brands

Fuentes’ interview marks his peak — and his decline. Once the outrage fades, he’ll return to obscurity, remembered mostly as a cautionary tale about what happens when empty charisma meets unearned confidence.

Carlson, meanwhile, risks following him down that path. His willingness to platform attention-seekers may boost short-term clicks, but it erodes long-term credibility. Each indulgence costs him a little more trust.

The tragedy isn’t just Fuentes’ wasted potential. It’s the spectacle of one of the right’s most talented communicators lending his megaphone to a man who long ago proved himself unworthy of it.

Artificial intelligence is not your friend



Half of Americans say they are lonely and isolated — and artificial intelligence is stepping into the void.

Sam Altman recently announced that OpenAI will soon provide erotica for lonely adults. Mark Zuckerberg envisions a future in which solitary people enjoy AI friends. According to the Harvard Business Review, the top uses for large language models are therapy and companionship.

Lonely people don’t need better algorithms. We need better friends — and the courage to be one.

It’s easy to see why this is happening. AI is always available, endlessly patient, and unfailingly agreeable. Millions now pour their secrets into silicon confidants, comforted by algorithms that respond with affirmation and tact.

But what masquerades as friendship is, in fact, a dangerous substitute. AI therapy and friendship burrow us deeper into ourselves when what we most need is to reach out to others.

As Jordan Peterson once observed, “Obsessive concern with the self is indistinguishable from misery.” That is the trap of AI companionship.

Hall of mirrors

AI echoes back your concerns, frames its answers around your cues, and never asks anything of you. At times, it may surprise you with information, but the conversation still runs along tracks you have laid. In that sense, every exchange with AI is solipsistic — a hall of mirrors that flatters the self but never challenges it.

It can’t grow with you to become more generous, honorable, just, or patient. Ultimately, every interaction with AI cultivates a narrow self-centeredness that only increases loneliness and unhappiness.

Even when self-reflection is necessary, AI falls short. It cannot read your emotions, adjust its tone, or provide physical comfort. It can’t inspire courage, sit beside you in silence, or offer forgiveness. A chatbot can only mimic what it has never known.

Most damaging of all, it can’t truly empathize. No matter what words it generates, it has never suffered loss, borne responsibility, or accepted love. Deep down, you know it doesn’t really understand you.

With AI, you can talk all you want. But you will never be heard.

Humans need love, not algorithms

Humans are social animals. We long for love and recognition from other humans. The desire for friendship is natural. But people are looking where no real friend can be found.

Aristotle taught that genuine friendship is ordered toward a common good and requires presence, sacrifice, and accountability. Unlike friendships of utility or pleasure — which dissolve when benefit or amusement fades — true friendship endures, because it calls each person to become better than they are.

Today, the word “friend” is often cheapened to a mere social-media connection, making Aristotelian friendship — rooted in virtue and sacrifice — feel almost foreign. Yet it comes alive in ancient texts, which show the heights that true friendship can inspire.

Real friendships are rooted in ideals older than machines and formed through shared struggles and selfless giving.

In Homer’s “Iliad,” Achilles and Patroclus shared an unbreakable bond forged in childhood and through battle. When Patroclus was killed, Achilles’ rage and grief changed the course of the Trojan War and of history. The Bible describes the friendship of Jonathan and David, whose devotion to one another, to their people, and to God transcended ambition and even family ties: “The soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David.”

These friendships were not one-sided projections. They were built upon shared experiences and selflessness that artificial intelligence can never offer.

Each time we choose the easy route of AI companionship over the hard reality of human relationships, we render ourselves less available and less able to achieve the true friendship our ancestors enjoyed.

Recovering genuine friendship requires forming people who are capable of being friends. People must be taught how to speak, listen, and seek truth together — something our current educational system has largely forgotten.

Classical education offers a remedy, reviving these habits of human connection by immersing students in the great moral and philosophical conversations of the past. Unlike modern classrooms, where students passively absorb information, classical seminars require them to wrestle together over what matters most: love in Plato’s “Symposium,” restlessness in Augustine’s “Confessions,” loss in Virgil’s “Aeneid,” or reconciliation in Shakespeare’s “King Lear.”

These dialogues force students to listen carefully, speak honestly, and allow truth — not ego — to guide the exchange. They remind us that friendship is not built on convenience but on mutual searching, where each participant must give as well as receive.

Reclaiming humanity

In a world tempted by the frictionless ease of talking to machines, classical education restores human encounters. Seminars cultivate the courage to confront discomfort, admit error, and grapple with ideas that challenge our assumptions — a rehearsal for the moral and social demands of real friendship.

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Is classroom practice enough for friendship? No. But it plants the seeds. Habits of conversation, humility, and shared pursuit of truth prepare students to form real friendships through self-sacrifice outside the classroom: to cook for an exhausted co-worker, to answer the late-night call for help, to lovingly tell another he or she is wrong, to simply be present while someone grieves.

It’s difficult to form friendships in the modern world, where people are isolated in their homes, occupied by screens, and vexed by distractions and schedules. Technology tempts us with the illusion of effortless companionship — someone who is always where you are, whenever you want to talk. Like all fantasies, it can be pleasant for a time. But it’s not real.

Real friendships are rooted in ideals older than machines and formed through shared struggles and selfless giving.

Lonely people don’t need better algorithms. We need better friends — and the courage to be one.

Editor’s note: This article was published originally in the American Mind.

One-Quarter Of Young Americans Cut Off Their Parents And Call It ‘Boundaries’

Few of us can see that the choices we are making at 30 may well lead to spending Christmas alone at 60.

Not every battle needs a microphone



My martial arts training kicked in as I noticed someone walking up behind me at a busy intersection in Aurora, Colorado, not exactly America’s safest city, and I was not in the best part of town. I shifted slightly to see her and kept her in view while we waited for the light to change.

She was young, Gen Z perhaps, heavily tattooed, with the kind of piercings that make me wince and wonder how she ever gets through TSA with that much metal. Jewelry swayed from her nose and ears as she stood beside me at the crosswalk. It was a long wait for the light, and let’s be honest, when someone looks that rough, it’s easy to tense up — especially these days. With headlines full of random violence and senseless attacks, wariness can feel like common sense.

In an age of combat and argument, the most radical engagement may be quiet compassion.

Overhead, a bald eagle circled the hospital towers where my wife had been staying for nearly five months. I lifted my phone for a picture. She noticed and said quietly, “That’s cool.”

Quoting John Denver, I replied, “I know he’d be a poorer man if he never saw an eagle fly. This morning, I don’t think we’re poor, are we?”

She smiled, sadly, almost as if it were forced. “I needed that ... given what I’m carrying.”

The light changed, and we stepped into the crosswalk together. I asked the only question that mattered: “What are you carrying?”

She told me about her ex, abusive, threatening, promising to show up at her house. Fear shadowed every word. I asked if she’d filed an order of protection. She said she was in the process, but her voice carried little confidence. Then I asked if she had a firearm. In an instant, fear gave way to shame. She dropped her eyes and admitted she couldn’t own one because of a past conviction.

On the other side of the intersection, I offered her specific guidance that she could implement right away, practical steps to increase her safety and protect herself. But as I spoke, it became clear that the deeper issue wasn’t just logistics. I didn’t get the sense she believed she mattered.

So I looked at her and said, “Do you understand that your safety matters? That you are worth protecting?”

Her eyes said she didn’t believe it. So I told her again, this time as a fact, not a question: “You are worth protecting.” Tears welled up.

Then I asked if I could pray with her. She nodded tearfully, and right there, on the sidewalk of a busy Aurora street, we bowed our heads.

I can’t count how many people prayed for my wife and me that morning or throughout our long journey. But I can count the number praying for that young woman on a street corner in Aurora. And it wasn’t just me. We have a Savior who “always lives to make intercession” for us (Hebrews 7:25).

That’s all it took. Not a debate. Not an argument. Just seeing her, giving her steps to take, praying for her, and offering her what she could not yet tell herself.

It was an unusual encounter, but crossings like this will only become more frequent, because a generation is struggling with anxiety, depression, and despair at levels we’ve never seen before. According to the Springtide Research Institute (2022), 55% of Gen Z report being moderately to extremely anxious, and 47% say they are moderately or extremely depressed.

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Some of them may look odd to us. They may dye their hair in garish tones, pierce their bodies, or cover themselves in ink. But Henry David Thoreau’s line remains true: “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” Some of us just wear our wounds differently. Blood is still red. Wounds still hurt. And scars still speak louder than arguments.

In the wake of the Charlie Kirk assassination, many people — young people especially — are rushing to the debate stage, eager for verbal combat. Strong voices still have a space in the public square. But not every meaningful moment requires a microphone or a mastery of apologetics.

That morning in Aurora, I wasn’t looking to change anyone’s politics. I was simply a caregiver, walking to the hospital to sit with my wife after decades of surgeries. Yet a brief exchange at a crosswalk became a chance to remind someone that her life mattered. She never knew what I carried. She didn’t need to. She benefited because I stopped to care. What began as caution in a rough neighborhood turned into an encounter that spoke directly to another human being’s heartache.

A generation is struggling. Those of us of a certain age may not know their world very well. But our scars can speak. It costs little and requires no training to be kind to a wounded soul.

We only need to be ready at a moment’s notice “to comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God” (2 Corinthians 1:4). In an age of combat and argument, that may be the most radical engagement of all.

In a connected world, Americans are more isolated than ever



Loneliness has become an epidemic in America. Millions of people, even when surrounded by others, feel invisible. In tragic irony, we live in an age of unparalleled connectivity, yet too many sit in silence, unseen and unheard.

I’ve been experiencing this firsthand. My children have grown up and moved out. The house that once overflowed with life now echoes with quiet. Moments that once held laughter now hold silence. And in that silence, the mind can play cruel games. It whispers, “You’re forgotten. Your story doesn’t matter.”

We are unique in our gifts, but not in our humanity. Recognizing this shared struggle is how we overcome loneliness.

It’s a lie.

I’ve seen it in others. I remember sitting at Rockefeller Center one winter, watching a woman lace up her ice skates. Her clothing was worn, her bag battered. Yet on the ice, she transformed — elegant, alive, radiant.

Minutes later, she returned to her shoes, merged into the crowd, unnoticed. I’ve thought of her often. She was not alone in her experience. Millions of Americans live unseen, performing acts of quiet heroism every day.

Shared pain makes us human

Loneliness convinces us to retreat, to stay silent, to stop reaching out to others. But connection is essential. Even small gestures — a word of encouragement, a listening ear, a shared meal — are radical acts against isolation.

I’ve learned this personally. Years ago, a caller called me “Mr. Perfect.” I could have deflected, but I chose honesty. I spoke of my alcoholism, my failed marriage, my brokenness. I expected judgment. Instead, I found resonance. People whispered back, “I’m going through the same thing. Thank you for saying it.”

Our pain is universal. Everyone struggles with self-doubt and fear. Everyone feels, at times, like a fraud. We are unique in our gifts, but not in our humanity. Recognizing this shared struggle is how we overcome loneliness.

We were made for connection. We were built for community — for conversation, for touch, for shared purpose. Every time we reach out, every act of courage and compassion punches a hole in the wall of isolation.

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You’re not alone

If you’re feeling alone, know this: You are not invisible. You are seen. You matter. And if you’re not struggling, someone you know is. It’s your responsibility to reach out.

Loneliness is not proof of brokenness. It is proof of humanity. It is a call to engage, to bear witness, to connect. The world is different because of the people who choose to act. It is brighter when we refuse to be isolated.

We cannot let silence win. We cannot allow loneliness to dictate our lives. Speak. Reach out. Connect. Share your gifts. By doing so, we remind one another: We are all alike, and yet each of us matters profoundly.

In this moment, in this country, in this world, what we do matters. Loneliness is real, but so is hope. And hope begins with connection.

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Charlie Kirk Helped Combat The Epidemic Of Campus Loneliness

Into the dark web of campus ignorance stepped Charlie Kirk, a joyful warrior of immense spirit and optimism.

Digital companionship masks emptiness in a quiet, lonely world



Jill Smola is 75 years old. She’s a retiree from Orlando, Florida, and she spent her life caring for the elderly. She played games, assembled puzzles, and offered company to those who otherwise would have sat alone.

Now, she sits alone herself. Her husband has died. She has a lung condition. She can’t drive. She can’t leave her home. Weeks can pass without human interaction.

Loneliness is an epidemic. And AI will not fix it. It will only dull the edges and make a diminished life tolerable.

But CBS News reports that she has a new companion. And she likes this companion more than her own daughter.

The companion? Artificial intelligence.

She spends five hours a day talking to her AI friend. They play games, do trivia, and just talk. She says she even prefers it to real people.

My first thought was simple: Stop this. We are losing our humanity.

But as I sat with the story, I realized something uncomfortable. Maybe we’ve already lost some of our humanity — not to AI, but to ourselves.

Outsourcing presence

How often do we know the right thing to do yet fail to act? We know we should visit the lonely. We know we should sit with someone in pain. We know what Jesus would do: Notice the forgotten, touch the untouchable, offer time and attention without outsourcing compassion.

Yet how often do we just … talk about it? On the radio, online, in lectures, in posts. We pontificate, and then we retreat.

I asked myself: What am I actually doing to close the distance between knowing and doing?

Human connection is messy. It’s inconvenient. It takes patience, humility, and endurance. AI doesn’t challenge you. It doesn’t interrupt your day. It doesn’t ask anything of you. Real people do. Real people make us confront our pride, our discomfort, our loneliness.

We’ve built an economy of convenience. We can have groceries delivered, movies streamed, answers instantly. But friendships — real relationships — are slow, inefficient, unpredictable. They happen in the blank spaces of life that we’ve been trained to ignore.

And now we’re replacing that inefficiency with machines.

AI provides comfort without challenge. It eliminates the risk of real intimacy. It’s an elegant coping mechanism for loneliness, but a poor substitute for life. If we’re not careful, the lonely won’t just be alone — they’ll be alone with an anesthetic, a shadow that never asks for anything, never interrupts, never makes them grow.

Reclaiming our humanity

We need to reclaim our humanity. Presence matters. Not theory. Not outrage. Action.

It starts small. Pull up a chair for someone who eats alone. Call a neighbor you haven’t spoken to in months. Visit a nursing home once a month — then once a week. Ask their names, hear their stories. Teach your children how to be present, to sit with someone in grief, without rushing to fix it.

Turn phones off at dinner. Make Sunday afternoons human time. Listen. Ask questions. Don’t post about it afterward. Make the act itself sacred.

Humility is central. We prefer machines because we can control them. Real people are inconvenient. They interrupt our narratives. They demand patience, forgiveness, and endurance. They make us confront ourselves.

A friend will challenge your self-image. A chatbot won’t.

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Photo by Liv Bruce via Unsplash

Our homes are quieter. Our streets are emptier. Loneliness is an epidemic. And AI will not fix it. It will only dull the edges and make a diminished life tolerable.

Before we worry about how AI will reshape humanity, we must first practice humanity. It can start with 15 minutes a day of undivided attention, presence, and listening.

Change usually comes when pain finally wins. Let’s not wait for that. Let’s start now. Because real connection restores faster than any machine ever will.

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You were built for meaning, not cheap pleasure



For most of human history, scarcity was the enemy. Territory, calories, energy, and land all had to be fought for, hoarded, and rationed. Wars were waged and innovations forged to survive deprivation. But the material hardship that once united societies in common struggle has largely faded in the affluent world.

Now we face a different enemy: artificial abundance.

The future belongs to those who reject the simulacrum and embrace reality.

In the wealthiest nations, human beings are no longer selected for resilience in the face of scarcity. They’re selected for their ability to resist the seductions of abundance — synthetic food, fake relationships, dopamine on demand. The danger isn’t hunger or want, but the numbing comfort of simulated satisfaction.

Loaded with empty calories

Once, entire civilizations rose or fell depending on their ability to produce and preserve food. Famines routinely devastated societies, and most people spent their lives just trying to eat.

Now, calories come cheap and easy. Factory farming, food science, and global logistics mean even the poorest Americans can gorge on processed junk. A trip to McDonald’s or a few bucks at Walmart buys a week’s worth of empty calories.

But artificial flavorings and chemical fillers are no substitute for real food. They simulate nourishment, but slowly poison the body. Calories are now so available that obesity, not hunger, is the largest threat to the well-being of the poor. The need has been met — and subverted.

Sex and glory, sold cheap

The same dynamic has corrupted sexual desire. Historically, sex drove men to build civilizations, conquer enemies, win wealth, and rise in status. Today, that drive is short-circuited. Men can now simulate conquest and fulfillment without risk, pain, or purpose — through pornography and video games.

Why fight for honor or love when you can get the illusion of both from a screen? Instead of greatness, many young men settle for a life of digital masturbation — and that’s how the system likes it. Young men remain trapped in a kind of eternal adolescence: satisfied just enough to avoid rebellion, addicted just enough to stay quiet.

Fake attention, real loneliness

Social media and dating apps have similarly distorted the lives of young women. Women crave connection, validation, and community — roles they once fulfilled in family, faith, and friendship.

Now they chase attention online, deluding themselves into believing that likes and comments are the same as love and loyalty. Social media simulates female community and male desire, but gives neither. Depression rises. Real-life relationships crumble. Women fear male attention in person but crave it online, where they feel in control.

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Blaze Media Illustration

What results is a dysfunctional, hypergamous dating market. Men won’t approach. Women hold out for the fantasy of the “perfect man” who never arrives. Both sexes lose.

Lockdowns revealed the lie

COVID-19 lockdowns showed us the true danger of attempting to simulate every aspect of human experience.

During the lockdowns, social interactions from school, church, work, and even bonding with friends over a meal became impossible. School, church, work, friendship — all of it was forcibly digitized.

The results were catastrophic: soaring depression, stalled childhood development, and broken education.

But the worst part? People stayed in their digital cages even after the doors opened. Simulated connection became easier than real interaction. And easier won.

The real thing is harder — and worth it

Reality demands effort. Family, community, faith, and responsibility are hard. They hurt. They risk rejection. But they matter.

Left alone with simulated choices, most people will pick the path of least resistance. That’s why society must rethink what it rewards. Because the simulations aren’t harmless distractions — they’re traps.

The French philosopher Jean Baudrillard called this phenomenon the “simulacrum” — a copy with no original. A cheeseburger that isn’t food. AI “friends” that aren’t human and virtual “communities” that cannot possibly relieve loneliness. A porn star who looks and behaves nothing like a real woman. Online attention that ruins offline romance. Video game violence that replaces true heroism.

An evolutionary filter

We face an evolutionary bottleneck as serious as any in human history. But instead of favoring the strong, smart, or adaptable, survival now depends on who can say no.

Can you say no to simulated sex? Simulated success? Simulated community? Can you hunger for meaning, not just comfort?

Those who make it through this filter will be the ones who choose austerity over ease — who hunger for the real thing. The future belongs to those who reject the simulacrum and embrace reality.

Artificial intelligence will only make these temptations worse. But those who refuse to be pacified will also be the ones who endure.

Choose meaning. Teach your children to do the same. The future depends on it.

TikTok trauma queens are scaring off decent men for good



Let’s stop pretending we don’t know why men are done with marriage. They’re not “afraid of commitment.” They’re not “toxic.” And they’re certainly not “intimidated by strong women.” No, men have just finally figured out what the rest of us should’ve admitted years ago: It’s a terrible deal. Not for women — oh no, we’ve gamed it beautifully. For men.

And now, they know it.

Any man who walks away from marriage isn’t afraid of commitment. He’s just smart enough not to sign up for a state-sanctioned mugging disguised as romance.

According to research from the Marriage Foundation, between 70% to 80% of divorces are initiated by women. Among college-educated women, that number jumps to 90%. Translation: The more educated she is, the faster she realizes she can exit stage left with the house, the kids, the 401(k), and a monthly check. All she has to do is say, “I’m not happy,” and a judge will handle the rest.

And what a show it is! He loses his kids, his paycheck, and often his sanity, trying to keep up with court-mandated payments while living in a sad little apartment, granted visitation rights so limited he needs a calendar app and a court order just to see his own kids. Meanwhile, she’s posting #SingleMomStrong like the children are accessories she won in the divorce. How exactly is this empowering for anyone?

Women’s emotional garbage cans

It’s not just the divorce itself — it’s what leads up to it. Modern women have traded femininity for feral instinct, egged on by a culture that rewards emotional instability and calls it “empowerment.”

Think I’m exaggerating? Just spend five minutes on TikTok. You’ll find women screaming into their phones about “healing energy” and “divine feminine rage,” sipping boxed wine in a bathtub surrounded by crystals and court summonses. These women don’t want to love a man — they want to fix their daddy issues with a living, breathing human wallet.

They call it love, but what they really mean is trauma alchemy: “If you loved me, you’d fix me.” No, sweetie. You fix you. Then maybe, just maybe, you’ll attract a man who doesn’t have to call his therapist after every date.

This epidemic of emotional dysfunction isn’t accidental. Many of these women were raised in homes where masculinity was vilified, fathers were absent, and mothers were so bitter they could curdle milk with a glance.

These girls were handed generational rage and told it was feminism. They didn’t heal; they weaponized their pain and waited for the first man dumb enough to step into range. And if he’s not dumb? He’s the enemy. Because how dare he not offer himself up as a sacrifice on the altar of her unprocessed trauma.

Courts eat men alive

Family courts, of course, are the handmaids of this dysfunction. The U.S. Census Bureau reports that less than 20% of custodial parents are fathers, despite all evidence that children need both parents. But try telling that to a judge who thinks “fatherhood” is a weekend hobby and “child support” is a government-backed extortion racket.

Many states rake in billions through Title IV-D incentives, meaning the more money the state extracts from fathers, the more it receives from the federal government. It’s not justice — it’s a racket. It's a taxpayer-funded kickback scheme that rewards broken families and punishes paternal love.

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Worse, child support is often calculated not on what a man actually earns but on what the court believes he should earn. That’s called “imputed income” — and it’s how you turn a plumber into a felon because he couldn’t pay child support based on the fantasy that he’s a brain surgeon. If he misses a payment, he goes to jail. If she violates a custody order, she might get a warning. Maybe.

This isn’t equality. This is Turner v. Rogers in action. The Supreme Court ruled in 2011 that authorities can lock a man up for not paying child support without providing him a lawyer. Land of the free, indeed.

Here’s what’s wild: Women still don’t get it. Men aren’t angry at women — they’re done with them. Like this woman said, men are done negotiating with feral energy. They’re not trying to win an argument anymore. They’re exiting the game. Quietly. Permanently. And still, the same women who created the chaos stand around wondering, “Where did all the good men go?”

Honey, they’re over there — dodging alimony, living in peace, and thanking God they never married you.

‘Empowered’ women, depressed men

Here’s the kicker: We’re not even ashamed of it. We brag about it. We meme about it. Divorce glow-up. Trauma bonding. “Soft girl era.” Meanwhile, the men are just trying to stay out of court and off antidepressants. Feminism? Please. This is narcissism with a publicist.

Men want peace. They want loyalty, partnership, and respect. They want what their grandfathers had — a woman who had their back, not a woman who records their fights for social media clout.

But those women are rarer than ever. We’ve traded homemaking for hot-girl summer, traded character for chaos, and traded companionship for control. And then we expect men to marry us?

Newsflash: Men don’t marry liabilities.

We told them they weren’t necessary. We told them masculinity was toxic. We told them they owed us emotional labor, financial support, and full-time access to their phones. And when they refused, we called them weak. Now, they’re gone. And we still have the audacity to act confused.

Maybe it’s time we stop blaming men for not wanting us and start asking if we’re actually worth wanting. Until we clean up the emotional landmines, stop weaponizing the courts, and remember what being a woman actually means, we’re not a risk worth taking.

And any man who walks away from this mess isn’t afraid of commitment. He’s just smart enough not to sign up for a state-sanctioned mugging disguised as romance.