Category Archives: Dear David

Letters to the men who feel or want to. To the broken but beloved male soul–the soft kings, the psalmists, the
fathers and sons who were never taught how to hold their own tenderness.
> You can cry and still be king.

LETTER TO A MAN WHO LET HIMSELF FEEL

‘King David’ at Cleveland museum

Dear David,

A letter to the soft-hearted men who still believe they’re allowed to feel.

I’ve been thinking about you. Not as the crowned king or Goliath’s slayer. But as the boy who wept on fields and composed his ache into song. The one who didn’t hide from grief or beauty or need. And I wonder—if you were alive today, how would they receive you? A man who danced in public with his chest bare, cried over friends, mourned his enemies, and wrote entire chapters of vulnerability— Would they call you too soft? Too sensitive? Not man enough? Would they post sermon clips saying, “God doesn’t respond to emotions, only to His Word”— as if your Psalms weren’t Scripture now, as if you didn’t cry your way into divine intimacy?

Today’s world likes things neat.

Clean theology.

Sharp doctrine.

They want God to be a vending machine: input promise, receive miracle. But you? You just showed up. Some days with praise. Other days with rage. Many days with no plan—just your heart in your hands. And still—you were called a man after God’s own heart. Not because you quoted chapter and verse. But because you dared to be real. You let your longings be seen. You made your wounds into worship. You led armies and played the harp. You confessed without curating. You danced and cried and begged and trusted —all in the same body. These days, a man like you might be mocked. Told to “man up.” Told to stop being dramatic. Told to pray more “strategically.” They’d call your tears weakness, your openness a liability. They wouldn’t understand that faith sometimes leaks through cracks, that intimacy with God is sometimes messy. But you knew. You knew that wholeness doesn’t mean perfection— it means nothing is hidden. You brought it all to Him. And heaven didn’t flinch.

There are men today—good men— who are bleeding under the weight of detachment. Who want to cry but don’t. Who want to be known but fear it’ll cost them respect. Who’ve been told that silence is strength and need is weakness. But you lived another way. You remind us that courage and tenderness can live in the same voice. That devotion isn’t always polished. That to lead doesn’t mean to harden. That to be after God’s heart, you sometimes have to pour out your own. Thank you, David. For being a map. For showing that the soft-spoken don’t have to become loud to be seen. That the broken can still be beloved. That vulnerability, far from disqualifying us, often makes us holy.

With honour,

Meestique A feeler, a writer, and a believer in softness that still leads.

The Empathic Social Observer.

LETTER TO MY BROTHERS ON THESE STREETS

Dear Brothers out here on these streets with me,

I think we’re all beginning to tell ourselves the truth—and it’s quietly reshaping everything.

The truth that love, as many of us have known it, may have been more of a transaction than we cared to admit.

That many men don’t always choose women because they’ve been deeply seen—but because something about her works. She’s a life plan. A soft place to land. A way to prove, “I’ve made it.”

And yet, not always someone to know.
Not always someone to sit with, slowly, curiously, reverently.
Not always someone to grow beside—because that kind of growth is uncomfortable.

I don’t think this is all wickedness. I really don’t.
Sometimes it’s exhaustion.
Sometimes it’s a longing for peace in a world that’s taken too much already.
Sometimes it’s survival.

But it still makes it hard to breathe.
Because a woman can be deeply partnered—yet still feel like she’s carrying the weight of the intimacy alone.

Especially the woman who has done the inner work.
The one who has faced herself in the mirror and refused to look away.
The one who has read the books, dug through her childhood, cried through therapy, asked God hard questions, and softened anyway.

She’s not waiting to be rescued.
But she is hoping to be met.

Not worshipped.
Not idolised.
Met.

On ground that is tender. Real. Uncurated.

But sometimes she’s met with something else: A man who wants love—but hasn’t figured out who he is without applause.
A man who is tired—but won’t say it out loud.
A man who is yearning, yearning to be seen—but only knows how to perform.

And so, he “chooses” her.
Because she makes him feel better.
Not because he’s ready to see her.

It sounds like a compliment. But it isn’t.

Because when the fog lifts, and the performance dies down,
She may realise she’s entered a love where her soul is unknown.
Where her mind is unstudied.
Where her vulnerability is either too much—or goes unnoticed entirely.

And brothers, that’s not partnership.
That’s not love.
That’s branding. That’s optics.
That’s a narrative looking for a pretty co-star.

I don’t say this to shame you.

I say it because I’ve been that woman.
And I know too many others who have worn the same ache.

So, if you’re reading this and you feel seen—or stung—pause there.

Ask yourself:
Who am I without the role I’m performing?
What do I really want from love?
What do I actually have to offer another soul?

To the ones doing the inner work—quietly, consistently, even when no one claps—this is not your indictment.

It’s okay if you don’t have all the answers yet.

But please—don’t reach for someone to complete a picture you haven’t taken time to develop.

Love her, not the role she fits.
Learn her, not just what she provides.
See her, not just what she softens in you.

And if you’re not ready—be honest.
Don’t pick her because she makes you look less lonely.
Pick her because you want to walk with her—and keep walking.

With care,
Meestique
The Empathic Social Observer