Why Men Row?
Because dawn comes wet and aching, because the bourbon’s gone, because the pharmacy’s closed but the wound’s still open.
Because men were built for trenches, but the world gave them desks. So they fight the river instead— something that fights back.
Because the mirror shows a stranger, so they turn to the water, where the reflection moves but never lies.
Because the office is a coffin, the highway a funeral march, and the therapist’s clock ticks louder than the heart.
The boat doesn’t love you. Good. Love would soften your hands. It only asks: Can you bleed and still pull?
Because the river doesn’t care about your divorce, your debt, your father’s silence. It only cares if you can dig deep when the oar bites.
Because pain is the last thing that still feels honest. Because a perfect stroke —just one— feels like God nodding Okay. You’re still here.
The water takes your youth, your knees, your excuses, and gives back the only truth that matters: You are weak. You are strong. You are not dead yet.
Men row because the world tries to drown them slowly. So they drown themselves first— in sweat, in river, in the burn— just to remember what it’s like to rise.
—anonymous rower One of us