Since its founding, Polished Man has grown into a global campaign supported by influential figures including Chris Hemsworth, Zac Efron, and Kelly Slater.
The movement has successfully raised over $8.7 million, which funds trauma recovery programs, prevention initiatives, and support services for survivors around the world. More than just a symbol, each painted nail stands for action, awareness, and advocacy.
By participating in this movement, individuals help spark meaningful dialogue and contribute to building a safer world for children. So, if you see a man with one painted fingernail, it may not just be a fashion choice—it could be a quiet statement of hope, a show of solidarity, and a powerful reminder that no child should suffer in silence.
When I met my now-wife, she had a 3-year-old daughter.
When she was around 4, she even started calling me daddy. She’s 13 now, and her biological dad comes in and out of her life. Last night she was visiting with her bio dad when I got a text from her wondering if I could pick her up.
Well, I got there, she came over to my……car with tears in her eyes, trying hard to look strong. I didn’t ask questions right away.
She just buckled herself in, pulled her hoodie over her head, and whispered, “Can we just go home?” I nodded and started driving. After a few minutes of silence, she finally said softly, “He forgot I was there.
He left to go out with his friends.” She tried to laugh it off, but her voice cracked, and all I could think about was how many times a child should never have to wonder if they matter.When we got home, my wife hugged her, and she broke down completely, all the feelings she held inside spilling out. Later that night, while we were alone, she asked me quietly, “Do you think it’s bad if I stop calling him Dad?”
I told her names don’t make someone a father—actions do. She looked at me for a long time, then said, “Okay… good.
Because you’re my real dad. You never forget me.” I didn’t expect those words, but hearing them felt like being handed something fragile and priceless.This morning, she left for school smiling, wearing the hoodie I got her last Christmas—the one that says “Loved, Always.”
Before getting out of the car, she said, “Thanks for picking me up yesterday… Dad.” She said it like it had always been my name. I just smiled and said, “There will never be a day I won’t come for you.”I never gave her my DNA, but I gave her my time, my heart, and my promise.
And in return, she gave me something I didn’t know could mean so much—a place in her life not as a replacement, but as her choice. And that will always be the greatest honor I’ve ever received.
I was on a late-night flight from New York to Denver, exhausted from work but quietly proud of treating myself to a business-class seat after my company landed a major deal. While waiting to board, I noticed an elderly woman and her frail granddaughter.
I overheard the girl mention that she was heading to Denver Children’s Hospital for treatment and had never flown in business class. Without overthinking it, I offered them my two business-class seats and took their place in economy. The grandmother, named Ruth, thanked me with teary eyes, and the girl, Ellie, left me a note saying, “Kindness is the best medicine.”
I assumed I’d never see them again.
Six months later, I received a call that my mother had fainted while picking up her medication. Thankfully, someone immediately called for help, preventing a much worse outcome. When I arrived at the hospital, I was stunned to find Ruth sitting in the waiting room.
She recognized me instantly and said, “I couldn’t forget the man who helped my Ellie smile that day. I guess today was my turn.”
Over time, Ruth and my mother formed a close friendship, sharing weekly calls, recipes, and quiet support through their health journeys. Ellie, now recovering well, often visited with her.
As life moved forward, I realized how that single act of kindness had rippled into something far greater than I expected—connecting two families who were once strangers, and reminding me that compassion often returns in the moments we need it most.
When Ruth later passed away peacefully, her daughter handed me a small box containing a letter and copies of those boarding passes. In her note, Ruth wrote, “Kindness is not a one-way journey—it always finds a way back.” I framed that letter as a reminder that we may never fully understand how deeply a simple gesture can shape a life. And now, whenever I fly, I look around a little more carefully—just in case it’s my turn again.
