✦ The Modern Heiress

When the bare minimum becomes performance art, we listen harder.

We’ve all met a man who thinks giving bare minimum is an act of rebellion against the expectations he places on women. I’ve encountered ones who treat emotional maturity like a curse, communication like a threat, and your success like their competition. He doesn’t want an equal. He wants an admirer.

I’ve occasionally dealt with misogynistic men in social settings. Like I shared in my previous article, some mask disrespect with charm and joke their way into dominance. Others show up on the road. I’ve experienced road bullying when I drive alone, men speeding, overtaking recklessly, tailgating. But the moment they saw a man in the passenger seat, they would turn away like startled cats. It’s not that the aggression vanishes; it just cowers in the presence of another man. They don’t respect women. They fear men.

That’s what Sabrina Carpenter’s ‘Manchild’ gets right. The lyrics, laced with sarcasm and melody, peel the layers off faux-masculinity. It’s not that he’s mysterious, he’s just immature. It’s not that he’s too busy, he’s avoiding accountability. It’s not that he’s too deep, he’s shallow with good vocabulary.

“You were talkin’ shit in the group chat, I was talkin’ shit in the microphone.”

That line hits like a quiet flex. While manchildren cling to digital cowardice and perform for their bros, women like us turn that pain into purpose. We create. We speak. We write. We alchemize betrayal into legacy. That lyric reminds me of the way misogynists operate, they don’t confront, they conspire. They choose commentary over confrontation.

“Some day, someone will like me for me. But it’s not you, is it?”

This lyric unveils a truth I’ve seen in men with wounded egos and fragile entitlement. They want unconditional love without the emotional labor it takes to be lovable. They romanticize the idea of being understood, but weaponize your empathy to avoid growth. Incel logic whispers to them that they’re victims of high standards, when in truth, they’re running from their own reflection.

“You’re twenty-something going on seven.”

This is the lyric that slaps the hardest. It’s the anthem of every woman who was forced into a caretaker role in a romantic dynamic. I remember feeling like I was managing a man’s ego while managing my own trauma. There’s nothing more exhausting than babysitting someone who thinks he’s your equal. And yet, society applauds his effort while demanding perfection from you.

‘Manchild’ isn’t just a breakup anthem. It’s an awakening. It’s that moment you realize you were mothering someone who never grew up and it’s not your job to raise a man. Listening felt like closure dressed in melody.

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Your softest “no thanks” in silk,
Madam Alias Solis
Writer, The Modern Heiress