This piece is part of the Essentially Man “What It Means to Be a Man” series, long-form profiles exploring how men live, train, work and find meaning across cultures.
The project exists to let men speak for themselves, in a culture that usually speaks about them.
Tomáš moves through the world with discipline written into his body. His head is shaved, his posture deliberate, his presence controlled. Even standing still, he looks prepared, as if readiness itself is a habit he’s never quite put down.
Strength, routine, optimisation: none of it appears accidental. It’s maintained, defended, quietly insisted upon.
He speaks easily about fitness as victory. About the body as proof of effort. About never wanting to lose what he’s built.
But during our time together, there was a brief shift, a moment when the language of control softened. When he spoke about losing his mother, the performance fell quiet. Not dramatically. Just enough to notice the weight underneath.
It wasn’t weakness, and it wasn’t collapse. It was the glimpse of a man carrying grief while continuing to hold an image that doesn’t quite make room for it.
Tomáš comes from a place where men are expected to endure quietly. In Slovakia, resilience isn’t something you announce; it’s assumed. You work, you train, you don’t complain.
Bodies are currency — proof that you’re holding your line. Weakness isn’t punished loudly. It’s just … ignored.
So, it makes sense that when Tomáš talks about himself, he talks in terms of discipline.
“Lifestyle, discipline, self-respect, health,” he says. “A symbol of not giving up in hard times of life.”
His body is not an accident. It’s built, maintained, protected. Fitness, for him, isn’t vanity so much as containment: a way of keeping everything else in check.
Strength is something earned daily, something that has to be guarded once achieved.
“Once you know what it feels like to be jacked,” he says, “you never want to lose it. It’s like an addiction to that feeling.”
There’s pride there, but also vigilance. As if letting go might invite something unwanted back in.
He talks about being seen, not theatrically, but practically. Being naked in front of others. Being drawn. Being photographed.
“Being painted naked is like being hugged with someone’s eyes,” he once said. “Everyone needs to be seen … it can reduce loneliness or depression.”
On the surface, it sounds confident. Almost carefree.
But underneath is something many men will recognise: being seen feels safer when it’s controlled. When it’s physical. When it’s about form, not content.
When the body is the focus, the rest can stay unsaid.
Tomáš often frames fitness as readiness: for opportunity, for work, for life.
“I know that any time someone might want a photoshoot or a drawing class, I’m ready,” he says. “Being fit makes me feel prepared.”
Prepared for what, exactly, is never spelled out. It doesn’t need to be. In places like Slovakia, preparation itself is the point. You don’t wait for permission to be solid.
And yet, there was one moment when the language changed. No slogans. No optimisation. No jokes.
It happened when he spoke about his mother’s death.
The sentences slowed. The body — usually so present — receded. What came forward wasn’t collapse, but weight. The kind that doesn’t need explanation and wouldn’t benefit from one anyway.
It was brief. Almost accidental.
Then, as men often do, he gathered himself and returned to safer ground: training, routine, the things that can be measured.
Later, he joked about a photograph where his body didn’t perform as expected. About how a cold day had made him look “anti-alpha”.
It was said lightly, with humour. But humour is often how men quietly mark where the edge is.
What Tomáš shows — without ever stating it — is something many men live inside: The desire to be strong and the need to be held.
The wish to be seen and the fear of what might be seen if the armour slips.
He doesn’t ask for sympathy. He doesn’t frame himself as broken. He keeps moving, training, improving. In his world, that is care.
And somewhere between the discipline and the jokes, between the body he maintains and the grief he carries, there is a man who knows there is more — even if he hasn’t yet found the right language for it.
Maybe that’s enough, for now.
Not a resolution. Not a lesson.
Just a man holding both things at once — as so many do — in a place where strength is expected, silence is inherited, and being real has to find its own quiet way through.
Essentially Man documents how men live, not how they should.