“Is it easier raising girls or boys?” she asked as we walked along the beach. The question came casually, tossed into conversation. We were three mothers - one with two sons, one with one son, and me, with two daughters and a son. I paused for a moment and then confidently said, "Girls." Not because they're easier in general, but because I am one, so I can relate.
I've lived the terrain that my daughters are walking. When my eldest was in the thick of her teen transition, full of attitude, emotional storms, and boundary-testing, I knew when it was okay to be gentle and tell her that everything would be okay, and when to tell her to suck it up and stop being unreasonable. I knew when to hold firm and when to empathise. It was easy to read between the lines and see what was really going on, because I'd been there myself. I knew what it was like.
But with my son, it’s different. I don't have brothers. I didn't grow up watching the inner workings of boyhood unfold. Sure, I had my friends who had brothers, and I remember the times when they'd call their brother annoying, but I never really understood why he was annoying, because I'd only get glimpses of their behaviour. I didn't witness the everyday. I wasn't privy to the whole situation - only the snippets and the second hand stories of what went on. So when my daughters come to me, confused or frustrated by their brother's behaviour, I can't offer them the same kind of knowing as someone growing up with brothers would have. I'm learning alongside them.
As a woman, I haven't lived the hormonal surges of male adolescence, or the internal pressure to be strong, stoic, or dominant. I can sense my son's emotional waves but I don't always know what they mean. I can offer containment and a safe space to "be", but I can't model masculine embodiment - and that's where the difficulties lie: In that gap between what I can feel and what I can't fully teach. But as I watch him rise into his own masculine energy, I’m also witnessing a wider cultural shift—one where polarity feels blurred, roles feel reversed, and many boys are growing up without maps.
Women have learned to do it all: Lead, provide, protect, nurture. Not just out of empowerment, but out of necessity. And many men have grown up without models of healthy masculinity... without the rituals, the initiations, the embodied examples of what it means to lead with presence, not power. (And while your mind—and mine—might conjure images of tribal initiations, or hunting wild animals, to transition from the boy into a man, that's not quite what I'm referring to.) So we end up with women who are exhausted from doing it all, and men who are hesitant, passive, or performative, unsure of how to be in a relationship, in society, and in self. You see this in the dating world too. The endless stream of women asking "Where have all the real men gone?" and the comments from men who feel unseen, unneeded, or unsure of their place... the quiet ache of polarity lost. And then there's the men who are too aggressive and domineering. The balance is lost on both sides.
Yes, I can step into my masculine. Yes, I can set boundaries, hold structure, lead with clarity.
But it’s different.
When I do it, it’s a borrowed energy - one I’ve learned to access out of necessity, not embodiment.
And while my son respects me and we have a wonderful relationship, there’s a part of him that doesn’t receive it the same way he would from a man who lives in that energy naturally.
Because boys don’t just need rules.
They need resonance.
They need to see and feel what grounded masculinity looks like in the body, in the voice, in the presence of someone who’s walked that path.
And no matter how strong I am, I can’t transmit that frequency.
I don’t want my son to grow up afraid of his own power.
But I also don’t want him to wield it without reverence.
I want him to know that being a man isn’t about dominance or detachment.
It’s about presence. Integrity. Containment.
It’s about knowing how to hold space without needing to fix.
How to lead without controlling.
How to protect without posturing.
I want him to feel his emotions without drowning in them.
To respect the feminine without fearing her.
To rise into his King energy - not through conquest, but through clarity.
And I want him to know that his masculinity is not a threat.
It’s a gift.
When it’s rooted in truth, it brings peace. I know this, because I’ve felt it and experienced it.
And when I’m with a man who’s anchored in that energy, I soften. I exhale. I return to myself. I return to my true feminine self.
I don’t think you need to be a man to raise one.
You do however, need to honor the energetic gap, and find ways to bridge it with intention, not pressure.
As a single mother, here are some ways that I can still support my son through his masculine initiation:
Emotional Modelling: Show him how to feel without drowning. Let him witness both strength and softness, so that he learns that power doesn't mean suppression.
Invite Masculine Mentors: Seek out coaches, teachers, uncles, or trusted male friends who embody grounded masculinity. These men don't have to be perfect, just present.
Name The Energy: Talk openly about masculine and feminine dynamics. I've been weaving it into conversations, teaching him that leadership is about presence, not control.
Masculine Responsibilities: More than just letting him manage his own schedule, I'm aware that he can start stepping up to be the "man" of the house, so I've been tasking him with traditionally masculine chores - like building, fixing, and taking initiative.
Holding Firm: When he pushes, I don't collapse and I don't fight or argue back, despite temptation. I breathe through it to stay calm. I let him know when I think he's being unreasonable. I hold my boundaries but also keep the space safe for him to breathe and express himself safely.
You won’t always get it right. But your presence, your intention, and your willingness to learn alongside him—that’s the initiation.
So no, it’s not easier raising girls or boys.
It’s just different.
And if we want to see more “real men” in the world, we need to stop shaming them and start showing them.
Not with control, but with containment.
Not with fear, but with faith.
Not with force, but with presence.
And maybe, just maybe, it starts with how we mother.