A Few Good Men…

Who is a good man? I’ve often pondered that question as though it were some ancient riddle, its answer elusive, shimmering just beyond the reach of understanding. What makes a man good? Oh, how quick we are to label it—a veneer of traits: his demeanor, his poise, his polished education, his connections, his wealth, the way his appearance commands a room. But I ask you, does that truly make a man good?

Recently, I’ve been thrust into the depths of this question, forced to wrestle with it as if it were a serpent coiled around my very soul. What is “a good man”? And I’ve come to realize something hauntingly true—goodness, like all things fragile, is relative. A shifting shadow, always questionable.

For goodness without character is a hollow thing—a shell without its pearl. Yet, even character, that noble word, has been perverted, tainted with perfectionism, or worse—achievements. So, does goodness reside in mere character qualities? In my youth, when I was blissfully ignorant, I believed I had the answer. I thought the men I knew, men of strong character, were the very essence of goodness. But how wrong I was. The truth is more bitter than I had imagined—there are only a few good men.

The silence of lambs… and a few good men.

Indeed, the term “good” itself is fluid, never anchored to one meaning. For every good man, there is a better one waiting to eclipse him, and beyond that, the best. The only constant in a good man is change. And therein lies the secret—a man is not truly good unless he is aware of his imperfections, unless he is committed to growth, to the unrelenting journey of becoming more than just good. He must transform—transcend himself—become better, and then the best, and once he reaches that summit, he must set his sights on another peak of his being and conquer it too. This is the burden I have seen carried by the few good men I’ve known. The key to their goodness? An endless becoming. To be good is to never be still—it is to be aware and hungry for growth.

But oh, the weight of self-improvement—how heavy it is! It is a task not for the faint-hearted, for to commit to it is to plunge into the abyss of one’s own flaws, to confront the dark mirror of one’s soul. Most men shy away, preferring the easy path, pointing fingers at others, eagerly parading their own virtues like trophies, while never daring to look within. I’ve learned this: those who are most insecure are often the quickest to flaunt their supposed security.

But here lies the grim truth: we all carry insecurities. What sets us apart is not the absence of them, but how we face them, how we carry them, and how much responsibility we claim for them.

Good men do exist, but like rare constellations, they often go unnoticed in the vast sky of our lives. And when they stand before us, we fail to appreciate them, blinded as we are by our expectations of what goodness should look like. If I have learned anything from Sagittarius, it is this: a man’s greatest battle is against himself. His relentless thirst to conquer his own weaknesses, to slay the beast within, is a sight both alarming and awe-inspiring. I did not value this trait in him—until I met a blind Scorpio, and suddenly, with painful clarity, I realized: men are not created equal.

We need men. We need them strong, yes—but not without softness. We need them good, but not perfect. We need them capable of looking inward, of confronting their shadows, of walking the perilous path of self-betterment.

There are a few good men in this world. They are not the flawless ones. I have known them—some I cherished, others I took for granted.

But because of those few, I know goodness is not a myth. Look closely. If you dare to listen beyond the clamor of the world, you will hear them. These men, these good men, they do not arrive in the polished packages we expect. It is no wonder we so often miss them.