“It’s alarming,” I said, half-listening to the city council session, half-bracing myself for what I already knew would come next.
“It’s expected,” the other voice in me replied — quieter, but sharper. The one that always sees the undercurrent, and not just the headline.
The session had turned somber. The rising number of suicide cases, particularly among men, was finally being acknowledged. Data was laid bare: charts, case studies, numbers that couldn’t cry — but should have.
“Why is this happening?” someone asked. We’ve known why, “I muttered. And we have.
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Study after study points to the same root: machismo.
The ingrained, inherited belief that to be a man is to be stoic.
Tough. Emotionless.
Crying is a weakness. Vulnerability is shame.
Feelings are foreign — or worse, feminine.
“But they have to be strong, right?” the surface-level voice in me said, “No, they’re told to pretend they’re strong.”
And that pretense is deadly.
Instead, we teach our boys to fight — literally.
That if they’re hurt, the accepted response is to inflict pain in return.
Throw a punch, don’t shed a tear.
Emotional vocabulary is skipped in favor of physical dominance.
As if bruised knuckles are more acceptable than bruised feelings.
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Men are conditioned to bottle it all up — grief, anxiety, failure, pain.
It’s a quiet kind of violence, self-inflicted but socially endorsed.
Until one day, the bottle breaks.
And we say, “We didn’t see it coming,” even though it was always there.
We just refused to look.
“At least women can cry,” the first voice offered, like a consolation.
“Yes. And they’re mocked for it, but it ironically saves them.”
Because women, for all the ridicule hurled at their emotions, are allowed a language for pain.
Crying. Venting. Therapy. Group chats.
Emotional safety nets, however imperfect.
They are also allowed to have a flock — friends they can do a full-on Maritessing with, dissecting every ache and annoyance down to the syllable.
It’s not just accepted. It’s expected.
Men, on the other hand?
If they gather in flocks without a ball or bottle involved, they risk being teased for not being “manly enough” — as if emotional connection needs a sports jersey or beer foam to pass inspection.
And for the record, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with not being manly enough.
Some of the best humans I know wouldn’t survive a basketball game — and thank goodness.
“So you’re saying weakness protects us?”
“No, I’m saying we’ve mistaken emotional expression for weakness — and that mistake is killing men.”
Crying is not surrender.
It’s science. A release. Cortisol regulation.
A signal to others: I need help.
But men are taught to say the opposite — not through words, but through silence.
“Maybe we should teach boys it’s ok to cry.”
Yes. That, and more.
Teach them that they don’t need to earn their humanity through silence.
That they are allowed pain without penalty.
That their anger isn’t the only emotion worth validating.
And most of all — that gentleness and masculinity are not opposites.
Because right now, we’re asking men to perform toughness at the cost of their lives.
We hand them the armor, but not the exit strategy. Then we act surprised when they disappear under the weight of it.
“Maybe this session will change something,” I said aloud, clinging to hope.
“Maybe,” I answered — not cynically, but carefully.
But only if we stop calling silence strength, and start calling vulnerability what it truly is…
survival.
Still brewing thoughts — no sugarcoating, just stories steeped in truth.
