I’m sitting on a low brick wall at a party next to my date. Twenty-something boys and girls mill around, drink in hand, most of them in couples. One man clocks the boy sitting next to me, approaching us with a wide grin: “he’s a good one”.

The man is talking to me. Minutes later a girl rushes over, taking my hand in hers with a squeeze: “he’s one of the nice ones”. It would take another four months of dating before I realise that being a ‘good guy’ is very different from being a kind one.  

The terms ‘good guy’ or ‘nice guy’ have been in my consciousness for two decades: a blanket seal of approval given to people (typically men) who display surface-level qualities of respect, decency and likeability.  

In The Will to Change: Men, Masculinity, and Love, bell hooks characterises this as a mask. The ‘good guy’ mold can distort participation in oppressive patriarchal systems. One of the largest ethical implications of this term is that it paints men as a binary. They are either a ‘good guy’ or they are a ‘bad guy’. It creates cognitive dissonance when a ‘good guy’ is complicit in the exact structures they claim to reject. The implication of this is a lack of accountability, a sense of confusion and feeling attacked when these men are presented with information that misaligns with their internalised and reaffirmed sense of self.  

I always wondered, why is simply being ‘good’ heralded as praise for men? As if the expectation is that they are bad, and when they surprise us with respect they jump to a pedestal as “one of the good ones”.

In October 2024, Graham Norton was joined by Saoirse Ronan, Paul Mescal, Eddie Redmayne and Denzel Washington on his panel talk show. When discussing the concept of using a phone as a self-defence tool, Paul Mescal quipped, “Who’s actually going to think about that? If someone attacked me, I’m not going to go – phone.” Mescal humorously reached into his back pocket as the audience burst into laughter. The men added various comments until Saoirse Ronan cut through their voices, “That’s what girls have to think about all the time. Am I right ladies?” The audience quickly changed tone, cheering her for speaking up whilst the men nodded quietly.  

This twenty-second exchange went viral. Publications from Vogue, The Guardian and the BBC all praised Ronan’s truthful outspokenness. However, many drew attention to the men on the show, in particular Paul Mescal. An often-characterised soft boi, Paul Mescal is known for his sensitivity, emotional depth and embracing of feminine traits. He later praised that Saoirse Ronan was “spot on” for calling out women’s safety. But it served as an important reminder that the societally termed ‘good bloke’ is not exempt from bad moments.  

Australian philosopher Kate Manne shows us the worst consequences of the ‘golden boy’ trope. In Down Girl: The Logic of Misogyny, she introduces the term ‘himpathy’, used to describe excessive sympathy towards male perpetrators of sexual violence. She describes the reluctance to believe women who testify against established ‘golden boys’, citing the 2015 People v Turner case as her primary study. In 2015, Chanel Miller (formerly Emily Doe) accused Standford freshman Brock Turner of five counts of felony sexual assault. In this case, testimony from a female friend that Brock Turner was “caring, sweet and respectful to her” corroborated the Judge’s assessment of Turner’s character.  

Manne reveals himpathy’s dangerous ethical implication: “Good guys aren’t rapists. Brock Turner is a good guy. Therefore, Brock Turner is not a rapist”. The case culminated in six months of jail time and three years of probation; however, Turner was released from jail after three months on good behaviour.  

In the manosphere, ‘Nice Guy Syndrome’ has also been used to describe people who are nice with the aim of obtaining or maintaining a sexual relationship with another person. In this case, being ‘good’ is currency for an ulterior agenda where the person exhibiting ‘nice guy’ qualities builds a sense of entitlement that they are owed a romantic or sexual relationship. When the other person rejects them, the ‘nice guy’ can become disdainful or irrationally angry because they were not given what they are ‘owed’. Whilst the ‘good guy’ mold and ‘nice guy syndrome’ are inextricably linked, many individuals equate being good with being kind, when they are sometimes two very different things.  

When engaging with an average well-intentioned man, the ethical implications are often nuanced. Dr Glenn R. Schiraldi outlines childhood adversity including neglect, abandonment or abuse as root causes of the insecurity that leads to being passive and overly dependent on others/women for approval. This can create the ‘good guy’ who would rather maintain a likeable façade than engage in conflict.  

I’ve often sat with friends after hearing stories where a ‘good guy’ didn’t have the emotional maturity to initiate a hard conversation for fear of appearing unlikeable. And we always came back to the same questions. Having good intentions should not be disincentivised, but where does being good fall and being kind succeed? What does it mean to be kind?  

The first time the difference between being good and being kind was articulated to me was in The Imperfects Podcast, where psychologist Dr Emily Musgrove framed it as choosing truth versus harmony. When we want to do the ‘good’ thing, we choose the option that will keep the relationship in harmony. However, in the long term, we don’t achieve harmony through continually sacrificing the hard truth over having a harmonious relationship. Sometimes, delivering a hard truth is kinder than maintaining short term harmony.  

I was in my early twenties when I learnt that being kind meant you might have to let someone down. I was in my mid-twenties when I realised that a man being ‘good’ to me didn’t mean he was being ‘kind’ to me. This principle applies to everyone but is one that prevails amongst men that care more about having a ‘good guy’ reputation than leading with integrity.

The fizziness of my cider travels straight to my brain as my legs dangle over the concrete pavement. I giggle, laugh and tipsily dance until the early hours of the morning, meeting his friends for the first time. What no one had told me was how he would keep important secrets from me for fear of hurting my feelings, which would only hurt me more. How he would withdraw when he wasn’t happy with me and how I would respond in frustration, confused and demanding answers. How he would carry antiquated views that would never come to full light because after all, he was a good guy.  

We need to eliminate the ‘good guy’ trope as a seal of approval. We need to end the binary that people are either good or bad and start operating on the foundation that everyone is a person with the potential to be good and bad in moments. Instead of being ‘nice’, we should strive to be authentic, truthful and kind, even in the moments where it doesn’t make us look good.  

The ‘good ones’ aren’t always kind by Isha Desai is the winning essay in our Young Writers’ 2025 Competition (18-30 age category). Find out more about the competition here.     

A few weekends ago, I made a parenting mistake. I didn’t realise in the moment. The penny didn’t drop, until a good friend made a comment afterwards. 

My family was hosting a brunch with several other families. After a few hours in the noisy, sticky, fray, one of our kids asked to retreat. Sensing my hesitation, he pointed out that none of the other guests were of his age. 

Partly in acknowledgement, and partly because the retreat he had in mind involved attacking the thistles taking over our front lawn, I let him slip away. 

Shortly afterwards, sitting with a group of parents, watching syrup-crazed children run riot out the back, I explained his absence. One parent stopped me at the words “no one my age”. He was wondering, aloud, why age was relevant – let alone a reason to retreat. 

The friend who stopped me was one who’d moved to Australia as an adult. He saw the culture he was living in, and the one he’d left, with the benefit of fresh, discerning eyes. Before he finished making it, I saw his point. 

Why not expect our kids to socialise with others, regardless of age? Why not encourage them to enjoy the company of those younger than them, and the company of those older than them? 

The friend in question told us he’d noticed this propensity to segregate by age before, and resolved not to succumb. He said he makes a point of crossing age divides, of greeting and conversing without discriminating, at social gatherings. Children, in particular, often seem puzzled by his attention. Sometimes they don’t return a greeting, or answer a question, they just stare. The stare might be translated to mean, “Why is this old dude talking to me?” or, “Why would I talk to this old dude?”. Sometimes they mutter something before running off, sometimes they just run off.  

As the friend spoke, I recalled a social event where the child who’d just retreated had ended up deep in conversation with a grandparent he’d never met. I wished this image had come to mind earlier, prompted by the words “no one my age”. I knew both he and that grandparent had enjoyed their conversation, maybe as much as the cake, maybe more. It was proof age needn’t be a barrier. 

Age needn’t be a barrier, but my friend’s description of children giving him quizzical looks when he acknowledges them suggests us adults are making it one. It suggests so few adults – not counting relatives – take the time to talk to them, that when one does it’s an anomaly.

I consider how much attention I pay to children who aren’t my own at social gatherings.  

Sometimes, my attention is on fellow grown-ups and I don’t think to make an effort. At other times, I think to – then I overthink. I see a child and a compliment comes to mind but it’s based on their appearance, or a stereotype, so I censor myself. Or a question comes to mind, but the child in question is a teen and I imagine it will either induce a deep inward groan – “Not another adult asking what I’ll do post-school, how should I know?” – or defensiveness, or self-consciousness, or insecurity… 

What lame excuses! If I want my kids to enjoy and initiate interactions and relationships with people of all ages, to throw age-related bias out the window, I should too – even if it requires a little bit of extra effort, creativity, or risk. Who cares if I induce an eye-roll or a groan? What matters is that I don’t just take a genuine interest, and show genuine interest, in adult’s lives, but in the lives of children, too.  

I’m sure political philosopher David Runciman also attracts plenty of eye-rolls, as he did at last year’s Festival of Dangerous Ideas, when arguing that children as young as six should be allowed to vote. After acknowledging that many people find the idea laughable, he turns the question around. “Why shouldn’t they vote?” he asks. “They’re people; they’re citizens; they have interests; they have preferences; there are things that they care about.” Children might make irrational, ill-informed decisions, they might follow their tribe unthinkingly, they might dismiss facts that challenge pre-existing beliefs, but, he points out, adults might too. 

“You can’t generalise about children any more than you can generalise about adults,” Runciman says, noting that being well-informed isn’t a prerequisite for voting. Being capable is, and six-year-olds, he argues, are.  

Runciman speaks from experience – he once spent a term in an English primary school talking to kids as young as six about politics. Treating them “like they were full citizens”, he arranged for them to participate in the kind of focus groups political parties run for adults. The professional facilitator who ran them said one was among the most inspiring focus group sessions she’d ever been part of. 

I’m not convinced children as young as six should be allowed to vote; I am convinced that when we assume we can’t learn from, or socialise with, or befriend them – when we widen the generational divide instead of closing it – we do ourselves and our society a disservice.

I was grateful, and I’m grateful still, that the friend who drew my attention to my parenting mistake didn’t let concern about how it might come across stop him from speaking his mind. Frank honesty is a quality some associate with children. Either way, it’s one that I admire.  

I admired his persistence too – despite all those puzzled looks from kids, he’s persevered. 

That persistence has paid off. It’s taken months, it’s taken years, but now some children run to him, or look for him at social gatherings. Now some consider him a friend.

For more, tune into David Runciman’s FODI talk, Votes for 6 year olds: