My cousin Emily has a 10-year-old son named Ryker. Ryker is full of curiosity, energy, and a love for cats that is as big as his heart. When he got his new lunchbox—bright, colorful, and adorned with cats—he was thrilled. He couldn’t wait to show it off to his classmates, imagining the joy of having a lunchbox that reflected his personality.

Unfortunately, the world outside his family didn’t share his excitement. Some of the boys in his class teased him mercilessly. Maybe it was the colors. Maybe it was the cats. Maybe it was just the audacity of being different. Whatever the reason, the teasing hurt Ryker deeply. He began to dread lunchtime. He even considered not bringing his lunch at all, just to avoid the ridicule.

Watching this unfold, I felt a surge of protectiveness and responsibility. I realized that this wasn’t just about a lunchbox. It was about a young boy learning that self-expression could make him a target—and about the world teaching him, in subtle and not-so-subtle ways, what it means to be “a man.”

I decided to take a stand—not just for Ryker, but for every boy who has been told, implicitly or explicitly, that he can’t be himself. I ordered the same lunchbox for myself and proudly carried it to work today, at a large, conservative, corporate office. I was met with curiosity, some laughter, and many questions. Every time someone asked, I shared Ryker’s story. I told them about the teasing, about the fear, and about why it mattered so much that he see adults, especially men, embrace their passions unapologetically.

By the end of the day, something beautiful had happened. Colleagues who had initially smiled politely or rolled their eyes began to express admiration. They said things like, “I wish I’d had the courage to do that as a kid,” and “Ryker is lucky to have someone stand with him like this.” The message was clear: self-expression is never something to be ashamed of.

There is no single way to be a man. Men can be colorful. Men can be expressive. Men can be emotional, silly, joyful, and gleeful. A lunchbox doesn’t define masculinity, nor does it limit it—it celebrates individuality, courage, and the right to be yourself.

I love my lunchbox. Ryker loves his. And together, I hope we can send a message to all the boys out there: it is okay to embrace your passions, to celebrate the things you love, and to stand tall even when others tease or doubt you. Real strength lies in authenticity. Real courage lies in being unapologetically you.

So Ryker, and every boy who has ever been teased for who he is: carry your lunchboxes. Carry your dreams. Carry your passions. And know that there are grown-ups standing with you, showing the way.