People toss around the word “incel” these days like it’s just another insult, or like everyone in that space is hateful by default. I used to think so, too—until it became the only label that felt honest for where I was.
For me, “inceldom” wasn’t about blaming women or joining some toxic club. It was about existing in a space where loneliness turned into identity. It’s waking up every day knowing you are invisible to everyone you want to be seen by. At first, I just wanted what everyone else seemed to get by default—attention, affection, a chance. But the more I went without, the more it warped how I saw myself and the world around me.
School was where it started. After being voted “Ugliest Boy” in my class, the message was crystal clear: not only were girls not interested, but nobody was. The boys picked up on that, too. I was a safe target, a way for others to climb up the social ladder by stepping on me. Girls would only talk to me to get a laugh out of someone else, or to use me as a punchline. Sometimes it got creative—once I was asked out as a joke, with an audience, just to see my reaction. It worked: I went red and the whole hallway exploded with laughter. I pretended it didn’t matter, but those moments become a loop that plays in your head on repeat.
At home, I started living online. Social media, message boards, and eventually incel forums. That’s where I learned the term. “Involuntary celibate”—someone who wants to be loved but is always passed over, always left out. At first, it was a relief. It gave a name to what I felt. It was a place where I wasn’t the only one. I read post after post from guys who sounded just like me—guys who had never been kissed, never even hugged by a girl, who felt like a ghost.
But the deeper you go, the more those spaces start to shape how you see yourself and others. Some of the forums were angry, some were sad, most were a swirling mix of both. I never fully got on board with the outright hatred, but I could understand where the bitterness came from. When the world treats you as less than nothing, it’s tempting to blame the world. And yes, sometimes I did blame women, or the guys they chose, or the universe for making me the way I was. I can admit that now.
But here’s something people don’t get: Inceldom isn’t just about sex. It’s about isolation, rejection, and shame. It’s about seeing yourself as fundamentally broken, convinced there’s a part of you everyone else can sense and wants to avoid. You start to believe there’s some kind of conspiracy against you—even if logically, you know that’s not true. You fixate on everything you can’t control—your height, your jawline, the way your voice cracks, the way your hands shake when you talk. You try to “fix” yourself in secret, practicing your smile in the mirror, watching YouTube videos on “body language hacks,” lurking on self-improvement and dating forums until 3am.
I obsessed. I walked up and down train cars after work, looking for someone—anyone—to talk to, but never knowing how to start. I swiped through every dating app until there were literally no more matches left. I spiraled, quietly, into a place where hope started to feel dangerous. Why keep hoping if it only leads to another punchline?
The world felt like a cold place. Sometimes, in the worst moments, I wondered if things would ever get better. Would anyone ever want me? Was there something so wrong with me that even being in the room made people uncomfortable? That kind of shame is corrosive. You start to act the way you believe others see you—quiet, apologetic, withdrawn. And that makes people want to avoid you even more. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. The more you hate yourself, the more others keep their distance. And the more they keep their distance, the more you hate yourself.
The forums and “incel spaces” gave me two things: a sense that I wasn’t alone, and a steady drip of hopelessness. There’s a strange comfort in being able to say, “It’s not just me,” but there’s also a gravity that pulls you further down. Misery loves company, but it also breeds stagnation. The longer I stayed, the more it became an identity. “This is who I am. This is my fate.”
So how did it change?
Honestly, it started with one small, almost desperate step: the gym. Not because I thought it would magically solve everything, but because I needed something, anything, to do that wasn’t wallowing in my own misery. I started as a New Year’s resolution and just kept showing up, day after day. Lifting weights was therapy before I could even admit I needed therapy.
And then I did get therapy—real, actual counseling, even though it was scary and felt pointless at first. It wasn’t magic. There were no grand revelations. But over time, counseling taught me to be brutally honest with myself. Not “blame yourself for being bullied” honest, but “take responsibility for what you can change” honest. I learned that while none of it was my fault, I was the problem, in the sense that my beliefs and mindset were holding me back more than anyone else.
The gym gave me structure and, slowly, confidence. Therapy helped me change the way I talked to myself. I started eating better, sleeping better, grooming better. I started tracking my calories, hitting the weights four times a week, making rest and recovery a priority. I started reading—books on psychology, social skills, anything to help me understand people and myself.
But the biggest change? I just started talking to people. Not trying to “win” women or get validation, but actually trying to make friends, learn, connect. And the more I did that, the more I realized how much I had missed by hiding away. I stopped thinking of myself as someone who was “owed” anything. I stopped fixating on women who didn’t notice me, and started appreciating the people who actually showed up in my life. Some of them were women. Some of them became friends. Eventually, some of them became something more.
And I built momentum. After years of being on the outside, I became a personal trainer. I got certified. I started my own business. I found a community—first at the gym, then in my town. I trained in combat sports, not because I wanted to be tough, but because it pushed me out of my comfort zone. It taught me to take up space.
Now, at 21, I have more friends than I ever dreamed of. I’m in the best shape of my life. I’ve even had women approach me on nights out—a feeling I never imagined I’d experience. But honestly, that’s just a side effect. The real reward is waking up every day and feeling like I belong in my own skin.
If I could go back and talk to my younger self, I wouldn’t tell him it was all his fault. I’d tell him that the world can be cruel, but you don’t have to stay a victim forever. I’d tell him to get help sooner. To stop measuring his worth by someone else’s standards. To just keep going.
Because here’s the truth: Anyone can change. But nothing changes until your beliefs do—about yourself, about the world, about what’s possible.
If you’re reading this and you feel hopeless, or stuck, or like you’re never going to escape the box someone else put you in, please believe me: There’s hope. Focus on what you can control. Take small steps. Find people who support you, even if it’s just one person. Go to therapy, even if you don’t think it’ll help. Take care of your body—lift weights, eat real food, go outside.
And, above all, don’t give up on yourself. I didn’t. And it changed everything.