Netflix's 'Adolescence' & how we get from 'manosphere' to 'dadosphere'
Building real, in-person communities can set the right example for our kids in the age of influencers.
If you got your kids to bed on time over the past week and did the customary browse through Netflix for something to watch, you likely noticed a limited series called Adolescence atop the charts. And then, if you happened to binge watch Adolescence, jaw agape, over the course of one night, as I did, it likely left you with severe emotional whiplash and an overwhelming sense of dread about how you might manage to get your kids through their teenage years unscathed.
It’s because the show’s creators have vividly brought to life an unimaginable circumstance. A 13 year-old boy in a small English town — and, we can hardly consider this a spoiler, as it’s revealed in the opening moments of the first episode — is charged with the murder of a female classmate. As a parent, my first reaction was, “Why would someone make this?” The production itself amplified my unease: each hour-long episode is shot as one unedited take, so the first one depicts the boy’s shocking arrest at home, his processing at the police station, the assignment of his defense attorney, and his initial interrogation by detectives.
The deliberate, real-time pacing leaves ample space for the boy’s dad, played brilliantly by stalwart actor (and the show’s co-creator) Stephen Graham, to try his best to manage the situation, but mostly to simply freak the fuck out. There is no manual for helping your tweenage son who’s charged with a capital crime. It’s brutal to watch.
Adolescence is the breakout show of the moment certainly because of its creative genius but also because of its chillingly perfect timeliness. It arrived on television screens in sync with the reappearance of Andrew Tate in the media limelight, he of the “men’s rights” movement that’s fueling a pandemic of misogyny and toxic masculinity among young boys around the world, and also just as the “manosphere” which Tate inhabits has been fingered as a key factor in the rightward swing by young male voters in recent elections.
Many pundits say that the manosphere is filling gaps left by absent father figures and a retreat from in-person activities like youth sports and activities, and, to some extent, that’s where the writers of Adolescence lay blame for their young antagonist’s fall: Dad works hard in his self-owned plumbing business, often getting home late. Family tries to find hobbies for young Jamie but soccer, boxing, and art don’t really take. Jamie asks for a computer for Christmas. Family loses Jamie to the vast dangers of the internet and Mom recounts seeing the lights on in his room late at night. There’s a scene where Jamie’s dad innocently (but also naively) laments something to the effect of, “How were we to know what he was doing up there?”
After watching Adolescence and trying to understand how a kid could absorb such poisonous ideology, I kept coming back to one question: how do we share good ideas persuasively and collaboratively? Influencers online, whether they’re talking about the manosphere or mani-pedis, operate as broadcasters. Apart from a few token interactions, the content creator speaks at an audience, not with one. The successful ones just keep producing whatever boosts their metrics — likes, follows, ad dollars.
I cannot shake that image of Jamie, alone in his bedroom,
absorbing whatever the algorithm served up next.
And that audience? It’s mostly audiences of one. At the end of the line, it’s one person, alone, taking it all in, deciding how it fits into their worldview. Sure, there are comment threads and group chats, but I cannot shake that image of Jamie, alone in his bedroom, absorbing whatever the algorithm served up next.
I wish I had an antidote to the manosphere’s grip on young men, or a way to tell if your kind, thoughtful child is developing toxic views. I don’t. But I do believe dads can start modeling a kind of behavior that’s both healthy and contagious — for our kids and our communities. That’s what we’re working on with Dads for All. Let me explain.
Like young men, dads feel isolated too. All parents do, but let’s talk dad-to-dad. A lot of us are like Jamie’s dad: working hard, providing, juggling home life. Between the grind and the guilt, there’s not much space left for connection. Add financial stress and a relentless news cycle, and we’re often just trying to stay afloat.
If we do get a minute to look outward, it’s usually through a screen, doomscrolling, arguing with trolls, or echo-chambering ourselves into exhaustion. Even reading “good” sources starts to feel overwhelming when the news is discouraging. It’s not really conversation. It’s consumption.
That’s why real-world connection is at the core of what we’re building with Dads for All. One concept that gets to the heart of what we’re trying to foster is Community Cultural Wealth, developed by renowned scholar Tara Yosso, which highlights how communities already possess rich strengths and resources, and by sharing that capital, the community can work together to navigate and overcome challenges.
In our case, that might mean dads passing on Aspirational Capital — sharing stories of resilience. Or building Social Capital — connecting and supporting one another through everyday hurdles. Eventually, that can grow into Resistant Capital — advocating for changes that make parenting more manageable and equitable. And when we use in-person connection to share this capital, we activate empathy, trust, and shared identity in ways that scrolling never will.
Just to be clear, we’re not talking about circles of folding chairs in church basements and having serious talks once a week with white boards and handouts. But does a darts tournament at a brewery where dads can get to know each other sound more like it? Maybe capped with a short talk with a featured speaker? Or a community service activity that you can bring your kids to, giving your partner a break on a sunny afternoon? Or a fun group chat where you can be yourself, share ideas (and, hopefully, not share classified defense secrets)? An organization that’s going to tailor its approach and messaging to the local communities where it operates, not be dogmatically aligned with a national platform?
This is where our heads are at, with Dads for All. The cement is still wet. Hell, we’re still mixing the damn stuff at the moment. But if this all sounds appealing, please keep reading, following, and sharing. There’s much more to come.
Which makes me wonder: In the case of Adolescence, might a community of dads have been there to support Jamie’s dad, who was struggling, seemingly alone with his wife, to find solutions for his son, before things went so horribly wrong? Might Jamie have been inspired by a diverse community of men, in which his dad was a member, and had a different perspective on what it meant to be a man in today’s world? Now that’s a show I’d be delighted to binge.