What Are We Teaching Boys About Power?

5 min read

WHEN THE JUSTICE Department released a trove of Epstein-related files on January 30 and then pulled down thousands of pages after redaction failures exposed victims’ identifying information and explicit material, I felt a familiar gut-drop. Once again, the people with the least power were being asked to pay twice—first for the abuse, then for the “process” that claimed to address it.

This isn’t only an Epstein story; it’s an institutional one of abuse by powerful men, followed by a government agency that’s charged with protecting survivors instead inflicting a second round of harm.

I know what exploitation by more powerful adults feels like. It’s got to stop. We need to change what we teach boys and young men about power, emotions, and consent.

From age five to eleven, I was abused by a neighbor—someone my parents trusted, a leader at our hometown Boys Club. When I disclosed it, I was put on public television in a way that turned pain into spectacle. The adults around me believed they were helping; no one seemed to grasp what it meant for a kid who still had to walk into school the next day.

The abuse was devastating. Long after, what lingered was the collapse of safety and the confusion of authority: my parents were flying blind, a psychiatrist was selling a book about pedophilia, and educators didn’t step into their protective role. They had poor emotional intelligence, and what that does in people with power is this: It warps judgment. And when institutions mishandle survivors through carelessness, silence, or self-protection, survivors pay twice.

The adult response and the institutional one should never become a second injury. If we want fewer stories like this, we don’t start with cleanup. We start with prevention: teaching the skills, boundaries, and accountability norms boys must learn before they are men—and long before men design the institutions that can either protect or re-harm.

Parents can’t outsource this. We micromanage grades and sports while leaving the ethics of desire and power to chance. Schools can’t treat this as optional either. Real education includes how to navigate emotions and relationships—and how adults respond to misconduct or harm when it’s disclosed.

Power isn’t just muscles or money. It’s status and access—the ability to make someone else feel they can’t say no. It often starts small: entitlement posed as confidence, coercion as charm; it survives through jokes and adults who call girls “mature,” and it gets protected when reputations matter more than people.

Children will experiment with power. But many boys absorb a narrow script: sadness is embarrassing, shame is weak, tenderness is suspect. Buried feelings don’t disappear; they leak into self-harm, contempt, boundary-testing, and blaming people with less power.

I was saved by one person: my Uncle Marvin. After I disclosed the abuse, he didn’t lecture, shame, or try to fix me. He helped me think about what I was going to do to get through this. Conversation after conversation, he stayed with me until my feelings slowed enough to understand, so I didn’t manage them the only way I knew then: by hurting myself or lashing out at someone else. He never said, “Do this” or “Don’t do that.” He asked questions without judgment, listened as though my answers mattered, and then validated what I was feeling. Uncle Marvin gave me an inner compass and I learned that my feelings could guide me, not scare me.

What happened to me is why I’ve dedicated my life to teaching emotional intelligence—so harm is prevented upstream, before power turns into coercion. When kids learn to name what they feel, make sense of it with a trusted adult, build empathy and perspective-taking skills, and learn how to calm their bodies without shutting down or exploding, they develop a different relationship to power. They learn that influence isn’t license; it’s responsibility. That boundaries are real. That “no” isn’t a challenge to overcome. I’ve seen that shift firsthand in the thousands of schools worldwide that have implemented RULER, our evidence-based approach to building emotional intelligence.

So, what should boys learn about emotions and power?

Normalize “feelings talk” by modeling it.

Make naming emotions ordinary at the dinner table, in classrooms, in locker rooms. Keep it simple and concrete: “I’m sorry I snapped. I was getting defensive.” “I’m disappointed, but here’s what I’m going to do.” Boys learn regulation by watching it. When you can notice “I’m heated” or “I feel disrespected,” and have strategies to manage those feelings, you’re less likely to default to pressure, control, or escalation.

Repair after harm.

Keep shame on the behavior, not the boy: “You’re not bad, but that choice hurt someone.” Then teach them to practice repair: name it, own it, apologize without “but” (“I’m sorry I said that.” not “I’m sorry, but you…”), make amends, do it differently next time. Without repair, shame tends to flip into denial (“it wasn’t a big deal”), blame (“she made me”), or aggression (“everyone’s too sensitive”). Repair interrupts that spiral.

Treat “no” as complete.

Consent is a daily habit of respecting boundaries—physical, emotional, and digital. Teach boys to ask, notice discomfort, treat “maybe” as “no,” and accept “no” without retaliation, ridicule, or persistence. Also teach power gaps:when age, status, money, authority, or intoxication tilts the room, responsibility rises with power.

Use power with restraint.

Respect isn’t politeness. Politeness is manners when things are easy. Respect is restraint when you’re frustrated, excited, embarrassed, rejected, or turned on. Respect says “You said no, I’m stopping,” “I’m not going to pressure you.”

Be the one who steps in.

Boys don’t just need values, they need an “upstander identity,” including scripts: “Not cool.” “Stop.” “Leave her alone.” Then they need to know the follow-through: step in, pull a friend away, check on the target, and get help if needed. Adults must model this because if men don’t challenge men, boys learn silence is the rule.

And girls? Girls are too often trained to manage male behavior—be careful, don’t make a scene—and blamed when someone else violates them. Teach girls to trust discomfort and recognize tactics like gaslighting. But their safety can’t depend on vigilance. It depends on raising boys differently and holding men accountable.

If this moment teaches us anything, it’s to start upstream. What we fail to teach in childhood doesn’t disappear; it hardens into adulthood and into systems re-harming the very people they claim to serve.