Big, But Not Mean: Challenging the Stereotypes of Strength

Callum had always been big. In primary school, that meant "fat," which was fine, until Year 5, when he became a target. That year was the worst. He learned to hold back tears, stay on his feet when shoved, and keep quiet when called names. He rounded his shoulders, trying to make himself as small as possible. It didn’t work. He watched for testosterone-fueled aggression in the yard and did his best to stay far away.

The summer before Year 6, Callum had a growth spurt. He was still heavy, but now he had some height. His parents told him he was "stocky" and advised him not to "take any shit." Determined, he went back to school.

Callum learned to walk tall, shoulders back, filling the space he was in. Other students backed off immediately. One boy, Max, wasn’t happy about losing his punching bag and tried to shove Callum on day two. But after a year of being targeted, Callum saw it coming. He planted his feet and tensed his shoulders. Max bounced off. Everyone laughed. The world changed. Year 6 was better. He was even invited to play football at break, proudly taking up the position of goalie.

Navigating High School

In high school, Callum knew he had to play the game carefully. He needed to be assertive enough to keep his year group from picking on him, but not so assertive that the older kids saw him as a threat. He observed students closely, mastering direct eye contact and a broad stance to avoid challenges from his peers while adopting a slight deferential head bob to assure older boys he wasn’t challenging their status.

The older he got, the fewer head bobs were needed. He had built a reputation as someone to be feared or respected. Ironically, he had only been in one fight, in Year 10 when a new boy arrived, swaggering into school, scanning the room, and winking at the girls. Within two days, new boy, Jay was squaring up to him.

"You think you’re hard, do ya?" Jay sneered. As if a siren had sounded, they were suddenly surrounded by excited students waiting for a show. Callum knew he had minutes before teachers arrived, minutes to maintain his reputation and prevent future challenges. He hated fighting.

"Mate, I can’t be arsed with this," he said, glancing at Jay, who was starting to bounce on his toes. Callum leaned back, feigning boredom. "As long as you don’t touch me, I got no problem with you."

This usually worked, looking unthreatened and bored, usually unnerved people. But not Jay.

Jay sniggered and shoulder-barged Callum. Callum barely moved, but the boundary had been crossed. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. He knew that if he wanted to keep his current lifestyle, he had to act. Without much thought, he shifted onto his toes, moving fast despite his size, and swung a fist. At that moment, Jay panicked, realizing his mistake, and ducked—straight into Callum’s punch. Their hearts sank simultaneously: Jay, as pain reverberated through his skull, knowing the bruises would be humiliating; Callum, as he realised he might be suspended, and praying he hadn’t broken Jay’s jaw. The crowd erupted. Their homegrown hardman had won.

The Assumption of Anger

Callum wasn’t given a fixed-term exclusion but was isolated from his peers for a few days and sent to counselling to "deal with anger." It would be easy for a counsellor to take one look at his size, and the referral information about a fight, and assume the goal was to teach him de-escalation techniques. But anger wasn’t the problem. It rarely is.

When the counsellor took the time to create a safe space and explore, they uncovered the truth: Callum had spent five years masking. Every movement, every expression, every interaction was carefully controlled. His school days were spent in hyper-vigilance, watching for threats, unrest, or veiled bullying. When he got home, he was exhausted.

He couldn’t tell the counsellor what he liked or enjoyed. The last time he truly played, he was eight. Callum wasn’t sure who he was.

What are the next steps for Callum?