You know what messed me up? That time in third grade when I fell during recess, scraped my knee badly, and started crying. Instead of comfort, I got “man up” from the teacher. I’m almost 30 now, and that moment still sits with me. Funny how these little things shape us.
It’s wild when you think about it. Every day, we’re playing this role that nobody actually gave us a script for. At work, I’m the “solid, dependable guy.” With my girlfriend, I’m the “strong, protective boyfriend.” With my friends, I’m the “chill dude who’s got it together.” All these versions of “being a man,” and none of them leave much room for actually feeling things.
Growing up, nobody hands you a manual titled “How to Be a Man,” but somehow we all got the same message:
– Don’t cry
– Handle it yourself
– Keep it together
– Be tough
– Don’t show weakness
– Figure it out alone
And we learned quick. Real quick.
The Daily Game
Here’s what a regular day looks like:
Wake up stressed about work? Brush it off.
Fight with your girlfriend? Walk it off.
Family problems? Deal with it silently.
Feeling overwhelmed? Better hit the gym.
We’ve got this whole system of dealing with emotions without actually dealing with them. Like emotional sleight of hand — now you see it, now you don’t.
But man, this stuff adds up. It’s like carrying around a backpack full of rocks, and every time you swallow your feelings, you add another one. Nobody sees the weight, but you feel it. Every. Single. Day.
The Contradictions We Live With
Society’s really messing with us lately:
“Be more vulnerable!” But also “Be a real man!”
“Share your feelings!” But also “Nobody likes a weak man!”
“It’s okay to cry!” But watch how people actually react when you do.
Mixed signals much?
Behind Closed Doors
Want to know the truth? Sometimes I sit in my car after a rough day and just… sit there. Not crying, not raging, just sitting. Because it’s the only place where I don’t have to be “man enough” for anybody.
The Girlfriend Factor
Dating makes this stuff even harder. My girlfriend wants me to open up, share more, be vulnerable. And I get it. I really do. But how do you unlearn decades of “keep it together” programming? How do you suddenly become comfortable showing the parts of yourself you’ve been taught to hide?
Ever notice how guys hang out? We can spend entire afternoons with our friends, talking about everything except what’s really going on inside. Sports, work, games, cars — anything but feelings. It’s like we’ve all signed this invisible contract to keep the real stuff under wraps.
Sometimes it slips out though. Late nights. After a few drinks. When someone’s going through something really heavy. In those rare moments, the mask cracks a little. And you know what? Those are usually the moments when friendships get real.
The Weight of “Being Strong”
Here’s something we don’t talk about: being the “strong one” is exhausting. Everyone needs a shoulder to cry on sometimes, but when you’re supposed to be the shoulder, where do you go?
Lately, I’ve been trying to push back a little:
– Admitting when I’m not okay
– Telling my girlfriend when stuff gets overwhelming
– Actually texting friends when life’s rough
– Not pretending I have all the answers
It feels unnatural. Like writing with my left hand. But maybe that’s the point.
To The Men Reading This
We’re all carrying this weight. All playing this role. All trying to be “man enough.” Maybe it’s time we asked ourselves: man enough for who?
To Everyone Else
When we go quiet, when we brush things off, when we say we’re “fine” — we’re not trying to be difficult. We’re just doing what we’ve been trained to do since we were kids.
I don’t have some neat solution to wrap this up with. I’m still figuring it out myself. Still catching myself swallowing words I should say. Still feeling that pressure to be “strong enough.”
But maybe that’s okay. Maybe the first step is just admitting that this weight we’re carrying? It’s real. And it’s heavy. And we don’t actually have to carry it alone.
— –
Sometimes I wonder what that kid with the scraped knee would think of me now. Maybe he’d be proud that I’m finally learning it’s okay to say “this hurts.” Even if I’m still learning how to say it out loud.