Why the manosphere sees 'desperate young men as moneybags'

It seems like the manosphere is lurking behind every corner.

From alarming headlines to documentary deep dives, what was once a fringe ideology has come full thrust into the mainstream.

And with young men being shown toxic content within 23 minutes of creating a social media account, it's becoming an inescapable part of growing up in the internet age.

We asked young men about what they're seeing online and how it's shaping their concept of masculinity.

Jak, 18, Melbourne

For me, it started with work-out videos. It was generic stuff, like encouraging men to go to the gym, showing them proper form, that kind of thing.

Typically, you'd see a video of a guy, shirtless, ripped, big muscles, with electronic music playing in the background, saying, "You need to go to the gym. You need to lock in. You need to be strong and become the man you should be."

At first I thought, "Hell yeah." The message seemed to be that you need discipline and strength.

But I realised that the main idea is often that you're not good enough in various ways, and in order to be better you have to do X, Y and Z.

Over time, my algorithm became filled with people pushing peptides and steroids. Any influencer I watched long enough eventually started selling a course, supplements, or some kind of product.

A lot of it was saying that if you get big muscles you'll get women, and if women don't want you after you've built your body, then they're stupid.

I never tried to seek out the misogynistic side of these videos; it just came to me. 

I was just thinking, "How did I go from gym videos to this?"

A lot of this content paints the idea that the world is out to get men, and I think some of that has bled into the real world.

Things that wouldn't have seemed normal before now feel normalised.

A couple of years ago, making fun of women wasn't really OK. Now you can be watching videos with friends, and if a woman starts speaking, someone says, "Shut up," and everyone laughs.

Recently, I worked on a Year 12 project about the manosphere. I learned a lot about how it can affect your mental wellbeing without you even realising.

Since doing that project, I've hopped off most social media.

At first, my friends thought I'd died. Then everyone thought I was crazy. A lot of people wanted to know what I actually do with my time.

But since leaving social media, I've just spent more time doing things I actually enjoy. I feel more confident and more present.

I wish people understood that no young man goes online intending to become misogynistic. A lot of it happens subconsciously and over a long period of time.

The core ideas are usually self-improvement — the ideas themselves are positive. 

It's the way those ideas get twisted that becomes harmful.

Noah, 18, Canberra

I spend a lot of time on Instagram. I'm somewhat of an influencer — I post a lot of short films and stuff, and I teach people how to make them. I've gained a bit of a following, about 40,000 followers across platforms.

On social media, I'm drawn to a lot of political stuff. I'm very involved with current affairs and politics. I love watching big debates on YouTube.

I don't support manosphere content, but I pay attention to it because I think it's an important topic.

Regardless of whether you like it or not, it's going to be in your feed. It's not something you can ignore.

I first started doing content through the gym, so I understand how insecurity builds and how body dysmorphia presents. I feel like a lot of what the manosphere does is create insecurity, then try to sell a fix.

In my content, I make a conscious effort to show all sides of myself because I know everyone puts on a facade online. I'm guilty of it sometimes — I tend to show the good things rather than the bad — but I do post a lot of stuff that's more raw than other people.

In my friend group, we're very against the manosphere — we know that it's not an accurate reflection — but it has affected us. I know I had more drive to make money once I saw these influencers posting online saying, "You'll never get a girlfriend if you don't have money."

Status is another pressure I feel, especially with social media. Everything's about followers. If I post a video that doesn't do well or doesn't get a certain number of followers or likes, I feel this sense of impending doom.

There's also the big looksmaxxing craze — I see a lot of that on Instagram.

I know people who buy courses from influencers online and do things to alter their face, or take peptides to try to fix their skin or lose weight. I've got friends who aren't very tall and they'll fold up socks and put them in their shoes to raise their height because they feel so insecure.

It feels like looks, money and status are the three pillars of being a man. In the world of social media, you can post and pretend you have all these traits, but none of it's real.

I think it's easy to be a decent person but hard to be a man.

The definition is changing a lot; what a man was 50 years ago compared to now is very different. 

My idea of how to be a man changes a lot. 

I want to get stronger, I want to look better, I want to make more money. There's pressure to do those things.

Then a lot of the time I think it doesn't matter.

I feel like you just need to ignore what a man is supposed to be and just try to be the best version of yourself.

Flynn, 24, Melbourne

Honestly, it felt like the flick of a switch. I'd never heard of Andrew Tate before before, but once I saw one video, I couldn't stop seeing them.

I was 20 at the time. All my friends were in the exact same demographic. We were talking about Tate, talking about different videos.

I think there was an element where we all recognised he was a bit extreme, but young men are often trying to make the darkest joke or say the most outrageous thing.

I'd always been passionate about filmmaking. I loved cameras and being on film when I was a kid, and I was pretty obsessed with becoming famous.

By Year 7, I was already editing videos; in Year 10, I tried vlogging. From there, it became skits, hot takes, opinion pieces and comedy. 

The idea of being a content creator seemed exciting.

At first, my content was pretty harmless. I just enjoyed making funny videos and they generally got positive reactions.

Then I started consuming manosphere content. To me, it felt like being part of a cool club, like you understood something everyone else didn't.

It was all about "escaping the Matrix" and becoming an alpha male and a boss. It gave you a sense of belonging.

At the same time I was feeling frustrated. Not because I hated myself, but because I wasn't famous yet, I wasn't rich yet, I wasn't achieving all the things I felt I should be.

Around that time, my TikTok account started getting serious traction.

I posted some controversial videos that went viral. In one, I asked if it was OK to be a straight white male in Australia, and went on a bit of a rant about women. It was probably one of the worst videos posted to TikTok that year.

The backlash was horrible — and rightfully so. It blew up internationally and got massive traction.

The irony is that it gave me exactly what I wanted, which was attention. Fame, infamy, whatever you want to call it.

That made things worse because I doubled down. Every video of people responding to me reinforced my prejudice at the time and made me more bigoted and angry.

The sad thing is that I was always a pretty kind and compassionate kid. I grew up in a progressive household. Mum and Dad were very politically engaged, and my family had always taught me to treat people with respect.

It was the combination of anger, frustration, constant exposure to manosphere content and being mentally unwell.

Around that time, I had started cycling through periods of mania and depression. Eventually that developed into a psychosis and I was hospitalised for three weeks. I received a bipolar diagnosis.

It was this forced reset. I had nothing to do except get my medication sorted and get help.

I had a really great team around me: psychiatrists, psychologists, mental health professionals, supportive parents, and an incredible friendship group.

Through time, maturity, and a lot of conversations, I just got better. I eventually found my way back to who I originally was.

I'm 24 now and I don't get served any of that manosphere content anymore. Even if I did, I can engage with it objectively. It's not really a danger to me now.

But I don't know what it's like being 12 or 16 and seeing that stuff every day.

What I'd want young guys to know is that these influencers you're idolising and looking up to really aren't that cool.

If you want to get fit, healthy, disciplined and financially responsible, there are much better role models and communities for that; you don't need the manosphere to learn those things.

And honestly, being kind might sound lame, but it's actually one of the most important things you can be.

If you want to be anything, be kind.

Bodie, 27, Adelaide

I met a lot of my friends through online gaming.

I've always seen some of them as the "edgy" type, but after COVID things started to change.

People wanted something to blame for their problems, then Andrew Tate appeared. 

The message became, "It's not your fault, it's women's fault."

People who felt disenfranchised suddenly had a major figure saying what they had been thinking all along.

Over time, my friends' attitudes gradually changed. They started making transphobic jokes, misogynistic jokes — the sort of "women should stay in the house" attitude. 

Gamers will always get angry. I get angry too and swear sometimes. But I have absolutely no tolerance for that kind of manosphere culture because I think it genuinely harms people.

It was upsetting because these were people I'd spent years with. I've got autism and I was diagnosed with ADHD as a child, so I know what it's like to be targeted. 

I'm not really a confrontational person, but I just thought, "I'm not dealing with these a**holes anymore". I left the server, and that was enough for them to block me and label me the bad guy.

What's sad is that some of the people I once called friends have turned into genuinely unpleasant people. 

When I think about my former friends, I don't necessarily think they followed Andrew Tate directly, but they definitely followed that broader manosphere culture. 

I think algorithms are a massive part of it. You watch one innocent video and suddenly you're sent down a pipeline.

The problem is that the manosphere deals in half-truths. These influencers give some genuinely useful advice, and then they use that credibility to push an ideology. That's how they hook people.

They see desperate young men as money bags; it's basically a get-rich-quick scheme. They give people a narrative, someone to blame, and that makes cruelty feel justified. 

I look at my little brother. He's 14 now. He's a good kid, but I'm worried because kids are exposed to this stuff.

I'm always wondering what the best approach is, the best way pull him up on certain comments. I trust my dad to steer him in the right direction if he notices something concerning.

When you're young you think you have to be perfect. You think you can never be wrong.

But going through all this has made me more confident in who I am. I can see those patterns; I can recognise the grift immediately.

Now, the people I'm around are mostly people I work with. I spend my time with decent people, and they usually think similarly to me.

I'm not the most socially competent person, so I try to make up for that by making people smile.

I want to be someone that people feel safe around. 

I want to be the kind of man people can look up to.

Stream all episodes of the new docuseries, The State of Man, free on ABC iview.