Men’s recovery groups matter. They give men a space to practice honesty, connection, and vulnerability — a place where deep shame and sorrow can finally be spoken aloud. As a therapist on the frontlines of men’s work for the past 15 years, I’ve seen how vital these circles can be.
But I’ve also seen their shadow side — and it can be dangerous. Too often, these groups create a ceiling of growth that keeps men stuck in adolescent patterns, mistaking early progress that honesty brings for transformation. I’m not advocating for these groups to disband; many are literal lifelines for lonely, desperate men. But I am calling for them to go deeper — to become true healing communities that call men into full integrity. This critique doesn’t come from a bystander taking shots at men or recovery culture. It comes from a fellow sojourner who believes in this work and wants to see it done more effectively, with better results.
One of the best gifts of men’s recovery groups is that men begin telling their stories instead of hiding. They learn to be more open and less isolated. Honesty cracks open the door to integrity — and that’s a beautiful beginning. But that’s all it is: a beginning. Healing requires more than honesty and confession; it demands transformation, delving into the depths of our shadow and facing what we fear most within ourselves. Too many men stop at the doorway of their wounds and mistake the start of recovery for its destination.
Core wounds often go untouched. Men talk around their pain but rarely expose, embody, or tend to it. These groups shouldn’t try to be group therapy, but they also can’t replace it. Too many men settle for basic maintenance of their sexual behavior without addressing the deeper story beneath it. Recovery circles can create a false sense of security — as if showing up, staying sober, and checking boxes of “accountability” equals healing. In reality, many are just treading water, and few men are being challenged beyond their comfort zone.
These groups can also become a way to assuage guilt with other men, sometimes even turning blame toward their partners instead of examining the “why” behind their destructive behaviors. This dynamic shifts attention away from victims of betrayal and back toward the perpetrators, excusing immaturity and avoiding accountability. It can devolve into a boys’ club where everyone drinks the same Kool-Aid — believing they’re becoming good and safe men, while staying stuck in stage one of recovery.
Confession is another cornerstone of these circles. And while confession feels powerful — like a narcotic, telling the truth for the first time in a room full of other addicts who also have a history of deception — it can feel like a huge victory, but that isn’t the same as healing. Confession is only the first step of integrity. Men can still confess their destructive behaviors while avoiding the pain that drives them. Relief can replace genuine repair if we are not careful.
Too often, men will tell their group the about their infidelities but keep their wives in the dark. Honesty begins to feel like healing because they’ve never been honest before — but it’s a false sense of progress if that’s where it stops. I hear it all the time from betrayed partners: “He’s been in recovery for decades, but nothing’s really changed, and I still don’t trust him.” Women, trust your gut on that, you don’t trust him probably because he is still at the beginning stages of his recovery even if he has been sober from porn and has been “in recovery” for years.
Another slippery slope in men’s recovery circles is the unconditional affirmations. Men speak and are appreciated and congratulated. Which is great and important in creating a safe space for authenticity and without judgment, but we cannot get caught up in the applause. When a man admits relapse and is celebrated as “courageous” for merely a baseline honesty that he should have had all along, slow authenticity is no authenticity. Courage isn’t confessing after failure; courage is living in truth before relapse ever happens. It’s admitting when we are scared, it’s being vulnerable when we are angry and insecure and reaching out when we need support, that is courage. But we must not set the bar so low for men’s integrity they are sure to trip over it.
This distortion of courage also appears in our churches, where public confession often substitutes for genuine repentance. A few years ago, Memphis pastor Andy Savage admitted to a “sexual incident” with a teenager — and his congregation gave him a standing ovation. Even the phrase “sexual incident” minimizes what was, in truth, the sexual abuse of a minor. His distancing language reveals how far he remains from fully acknowledging the weight of his actions.
I don’t want to shame men like him further, but I do want to remind us that telling the whole truth is what leads to real healing and transformation. Minimizing behavior only reinforces entitlement. There is no resurrection without crucifixion — men must feel all of it: the harm done to them, and the harm they’ve done to others. When they allow themselves to feel that weight, they can grieve it, release it, and stop repeating it.
When abusers tell the whole truth of their abuse, it’s the beginning of humility and the birth of safety. What if, instead of celebrating abusers for partial confessions, we centered the victims of their crimes as the true heroes? Don’t get me wrong — I’m glad men are starting the journey of truth-telling. But these are not courageous men yet; they are beginners, often cowards, learning to walk toward courage. The real heroes are the victims — the women who’ve been gaslighted, exploited, and discarded, yet still find the strength to endure and speak up.
The truth is, the church is not much different from these recovery circles. Both need reform if we’re going to create spaces that are truly safe. You can read the research and firsthand experiences of over 2,800 women who’ve worked in the church — and their stories of sexism and abuse — in my book Safe Church: How to Guard Against Sexism & Abuse in Christian Communities.
In closing, I’m grateful men are taking first steps. But recovery doesn’t end at honesty; it begins there. There’s more terrain to cross — the dangerous, holy terrain of our inner landscape. Many men haven’t practiced courage in a long time, and their emotional strength has atrophied. You must face your wife fully. Tell her the whole truth. Turn toward your deepest wounds and greatest fears. Recovery isn’t just about sharing guilt; it’s about repairing harm. It isn’t about minimizing abuse; it’s about centering victims. It isn’t about applause; it’s about addressing the pain within so we stop reenacting on those we say we love. Until men — and the churches that shape them — stop confusing words with change, recovery will remain a seduction: an illusion of progress while real courage and healing wait to be lived. I believe in men, and in what they can bring to the world when they finally become safe. That kind of manhood can change generations.
