The Boy Who Thought He Was a Man
- Chauncy Horton
- Dec 9
- 4 min read
I used to think I was a man.
When I was nineteen, twenty, twenty-one… I walked like one. Talked like one. Made moves like one. Loud music, full weekends, full cup, full ego. On those warm Baton Rouge nights, when headlights stretched down the road from Tigerland to my apartment—The Rock House—I felt untouchable. If you had seen me then, you’d probably say I was living the dream.
But I wasn’t a man.
Not yet.
I was just a boy who thought he was.
The First Fire
We don’t talk enough about the first fire in a man.
That flame that makes you reckless. Makes you bold. Makes you chase the party, the fight, the rush, the approval. It's not wisdom—but it’s alive. And there’s something sacred about that phase. Not because it’s perfect, but because it’s honest. The fire is wild. But it's real.
At The Rock House, my roommate and I threw a party that brought traffic to a halt and police to our door. Looking back now, it was a safety hazard. But at the time? It was the pinnacle of freedom. We weren’t running from life—we were running into it with open arms.
That season in a man’s life—college days, early twenties, pre-responsibility—is often dismissed as immature, self-centered, even wasteful. And yes, sometimes it is. But it’s also formative. Something is being shaped.
He’s learning:
What makes him feel alive.
What it feels like to be seen.
Where the edge is—and what happens when he crosses it.
This is not the time of quiet reflection. It’s the time of loud becoming.
He Wasn’t Broken—He Was Becoming
There’s a phrase people use: “He’s just sowing his oats.”
But they say it with rolled eyes. Like it’s a problem to fix.
I see it differently now.
When I left LSU and looked back at my earlier years—especially the small DIII school I transferred from in Central Louisiana—I realized that we weren’t lost. We were learning. My teammates and I weren’t just getting into fights and pulling pranks because we were immature—we were finding the edges of identity. We were stretching the limit of what we could do, say, carry, and survive.
We were learning power.
We were learning brotherhood.
We were learning limits—and what happened when you ignored them.
When we dumped soap in the chapel fountain (no, we never got caught) or drove 45 minutes just to be where the action was, it wasn’t just about chaos. It was about the craving to matter. To be felt. To find something bigger than the boredom and boundaries of our upbringing.
The Making of the Man Begins Here
Here’s what most people miss:
The version of you that people complain about at 21 is the same fire they’ll celebrate at 41—if you survive.
The world says:
“He’s too intense.”
“Too opinionated.”
“Too passionate.”
“Too much.”
But that fire? That’s the source code of leadership. Of risk. Of impact.
It’s the unrefined truth of a man in the making.
The Good Man Syndrome often begins when this fire gets buried. When, in an effort to be “a good man,” you trade in your passion for responsibility. You stop feeding the flame because you think it’s dangerous. But without that fire, life becomes a list of tasks instead of a life with purpose.
From Fire to Function
We’ve created a world where young men are told to “settle down.” To get serious. To produce. To suppress.
And so, he starts showing up less and less as himself.
He gets praised for composure. For stability. For “doing the right thing.”
But he’s disappearing.
He’s learning to be a provider, not a person.
He’s learning to be a name on a list, not a man in the room.
And somewhere along the way, he forgets who he was before the weight arrived.
We Need That Fire
Let me be clear: I’m not romanticizing recklessness.
You don’t get to stay 19 forever.
But that version of you—the boy who thought he was a man—he knew some things:
He knew how to take risks.
He knew how to show up loudly.
He knew how to follow desire.
He knew how to walk into a room and believe it was his.
Those instincts don’t need to be buried. They need to be refined.
And if you’ve spent the last decade or two feeling like you lost something—but couldn’t name it—this is probably it.
The Good Man Can’t Lose His Fire
The Good Man tries to do everything right.
He provides. He protects. He perseveres.
But if he’s not careful, he becomes a ghost.
The boy who danced with the fire is gone.
The man who wakes up every day just to serve everyone else—he’s here.
But he’s empty.
Because he abandoned the flame that made him feel alive.
So What’s the Message?
If you’re reading this, maybe you’re him.
Or maybe you love him.
Either way, here’s the truth:
The fire never left.
You just stopped feeding it.
This blog isn’t a call to be reckless again.
It's a reminder that the real you is still in there. And he’s not your enemy. He’s your origin.
He doesn’t need to be silenced.
He needs to be invited to the table.
Your Challenge This Week:
📍 For the man reading this:
What version of you felt the most alive?
When did you stop showing up like that?
What parts of that young fire could you reclaim today?
📍 For the one who loves him:
Can you see the boy he used to be?
Can you help him reconnect to his fire, not just his function?
Can you ask him, “What did you used to love—before life got heavy?”
Let’s Get Real
🔥 Leave a comment:
What’s one thing you used to love that you haven’t done in years?
📩 Want to go deeper?
Reply with the word FIRE and I’ll send you a free self-reflection guide.
📲 And if this hit you in the chest?
Tag a man who needs to read this.
Or just share it with the words: “This is me.”
If this post resonates, we’ll keep the fire burning in the next blog:
“He Wanted Freedom, But Got Responsibility.”
Until then… don’t let the fire die.
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