My dad's a beautiful man, but like a lot of Mexican men, or men

In the voice of truth and tenderness, Carlos Santana, the master of the guitar and of the spirit, once said: “My dad's a beautiful man, but like a lot of Mexican men, or men in general, a lot of men have a problem with the balance of masculinity and femininity — intuition and compassion and tenderness — and get overboard with the macho thing. It took him a while to become more, I would say, conscious, evolved.” These words, though born of personal reflection, rise to the level of timeless teaching. For within them lies a lesson about balance, about the harmony between strength and sensitivity, between the fire of action and the water of love. Santana, a man who has woven music from the threads of soul and heritage, speaks not merely of his father, but of all men — of the eternal struggle to unite the masculine and feminine within the human heart.

The origin of this quote comes from Santana’s reflections on his upbringing and his father, José Santana, a talented mariachi musician. Raised in Mexico, Carlos grew up amidst a culture that celebrated both artistry and pride, tenderness and toughness — yet often demanded men suppress their gentler nature. His father, like many of his generation, embodied the traditional ideal of machismo: the stoic provider, the strong one who hides his tears, the protector who fears vulnerability. But as Santana would later come to see, this form of masculinity, if left unchecked, becomes a prison — a mask that hides the full spectrum of human feeling. When he says his father “became more conscious, evolved,” he honors not just the man, but the journey of awakening — the courage to become whole.

In Santana’s words, we hear the echo of an ancient truth: that true strength lies in balance. The great civilizations of the past understood this harmony. In the East, the sages spoke of yin and yang, the dance of opposites that sustains the universe. In the West, the Greeks told of Apollo and Dionysus, intellect and passion entwined. And in the hearts of wise men and women everywhere, there has always been the understanding that power without compassion becomes tyranny, while tenderness without strength becomes weakness. Santana’s insight stands within this lineage: the teaching that masculinity and femininity are not enemies but partners, and that a soul is impoverished when it denies either.

History offers us many who, like Santana’s father, learned this lesson late, but beautifully. Consider Nelson Mandela, who spent 27 years in prison — years that tempered his anger and forged in him not vengeance, but compassion. When he emerged, he carried both the authority of a warrior and the gentleness of a sage. His power came not from dominance, but from the union of discipline and empathy, of courage and forgiveness. Or think of Marcus Aurelius, the Roman emperor and philosopher, who commanded armies yet wrote in his Meditations that “the best revenge is to be unlike him who performed the injury.” These men, like Santana’s father, transcended the crude definitions of masculinity and found the higher path — the path of consciousness, where strength serves love.

Santana’s reflection also touches on a wound that crosses all borders — the cultural inheritance of pride and silence. In many traditions, men are taught from youth to bury their emotions, to wear armor even among those they love. But armor that is never removed begins to rust from within. When Santana speaks of his father’s evolution, he honors the bravery it takes to unlearn such conditioning, to allow intuition and compassion to rise where pride once ruled. It is not weakness to be tender; it is the highest form of courage. To be “evolved,” as he says, is to recognize that humanity is not divided between the masculine and feminine, but completed by their union.

There is, in this lesson, a universal calling. Whether man or woman, every human being must learn the art of integration — to listen to the voice of intuition, to act with strength but also to feel with the heart. To be conscious, as Santana describes, is to awaken to the full spectrum of one’s being. The world suffers not from too much strength or too much softness, but from the imbalance between them. The warrior must learn peace; the healer must learn resolve. The man who cannot weep cannot truly love; the one who cannot stand firm cannot truly protect. Thus, to evolve is to embrace both — to become whole, radiant, alive.

The lesson Santana leaves us is simple yet profound: do not fear your tenderness. Whether you are a father, a son, a leader, or a friend, allow the divine feminine — compassion, intuition, patience — to guide your masculine fire toward creation rather than destruction. Do not mistake hardness for honor. True greatness is found in the man who can hold his power with gentleness, who can be both strong and kind, fierce and forgiving. It is this balance, this harmony of opposites, that births wisdom — in families, in nations, in hearts.

So remember, my children of tomorrow: as Carlos Santana teaches, evolution is not the conquest of one side of the soul over the other, but the union of both. Let strength walk hand in hand with mercy; let pride bow before understanding. When you find that balance within yourself, you will no longer need to prove your worth — for you will have discovered the eternal rhythm of humanity, the divine music that flows between the masculine and feminine, between power and peace. And like Santana’s father, you too will have become, in truth, conscious and evolved.