I don’t know where to begin, except maybe with the honesty that it’s taken me decades to even admit to myself what I’ve done. I was always a misogynist, though I didn’t call it that at the time. It wasn’t the shouting, the overt violence — at least not always. It was subtler, a kind of constant, quiet contempt. A way of seeing women as objects to be managed, assessed, and controlled, rather than people to be understood. I didn’t notice it at first. I thought it was normal, or just the way men behaved.

Looking back, it’s painful how often I manipulated, belittled, or dismissed the women in my life. Not all at once, not always consciously, but enough that patterns emerged. I would charm, flatter, gain trust, then twist situations to my advantage. I sought validation by undermining, by making others feel small so I could feel bigger. And it worked. I felt powerful, important, like I was untouchable.

But there was always this gnawing. I couldn’t fully ignore it. I hated myself in fleeting moments when the guilt surfaced, when I saw the look of hurt in someone’s eyes and knew it was because of me. I didn’t stop, though. I rationalised. I told myself it was them — too sensitive, too fragile, overreacting. And sometimes it was easier to just leave than to confront myself. So I moved on, over and over, leaving a trail of damaged relationships and fractured trust.

It wasn’t just romantic relationships. I treated colleagues, acquaintances, strangers sometimes, with the same dismissive, condescending lens. I judged women on appearance, on tone, on the way they carried themselves, silently comparing, criticising, finding fault. And I thought of it as harmless observation, clever insight, until I began to notice how it had shaped me into someone brittle, angry, and increasingly isolated.

The worst part is loving the idea of myself while despising the reality of my behaviour. I wanted to be admired, feared, desired — all the things I thought marked success — but I hated what I had to do to get there. The charm, the manipulation, the quiet cruelty, the constant measuring of people against some invisible standard of “worthiness.” It exhausted me, yet I kept doing it. And part of me still wonders why. Is it power? Is it insecurity? Both, I suppose, tangled together so tightly I couldn’t see a way out.

It’s only recently I’ve started naming it. Saying the words in my head, then out loud: misogyny. Serial misogyny. Not just bad choices, not just mistakes. A pattern, a philosophy, a lifelong habit that I perpetuated because I wanted control, and because I was afraid to confront my own failings.

I don’t know if I can undo what I’ve done. I can’t reach back and heal the hurt I caused. But I can try to see it, acknowledge it, understand it, and maybe — just maybe — stop repeating it. That’s all I can do, really. And even that feels too much sometimes, too slow, too late.