Man Up: But at What Cost?

Most men weren’t taught how to be emotionally safe—they were taught how to be “a man.” And being “a man” came with rules: don’t cry, don’t be soft, don’t ask for help, don’t show weakness, and definitely don’t act like a girl. It starts early. Research suggests that baby boys may actually cry more than baby girls, but by the time boys are toddlers, the messaging changes. They’re told to toughen up. They receive fewer cuddles, less nurturing, and less emotional room. Girls are consoled, while boys are told, “You’re fine: or "shake it off.” And just like that, emotional safety is stripped away before they even understand what they’ve lost.

So instead of growing up with tools to process sadness, fear, or hurt, many boys learn to shut those emotions down. They learn that vulnerability invites teasing. That sensitivity makes you a target. That being emotionally expressive might cost you your spot on the team, in your friend group, or even in your own family. And so, manhood becomes performance—a checklist, a costume, a mask, a standard to meet instead of a self to know.

You’re seen as a man if you provide. If you dominate. If you don’t complain. If you conquer—women, jobs, money, problems. And if you can’t do those things, or don’t want to, you risk being seen as weak, soft, unmanly, or somehow “less than.” For some, even expressing kindness or affection comes with the need to clarify—“no homo”—as if love must be distanced from identity, and softness is something to disclaim. A recent series of viral videos showed men calling their male friends just to say “good night.” Almost every single man on the other end responded with some version of “You good?” or “Don’t call me with that—call your girl.” Each call was met with shock, confusion and awkwardness. Though many people laughed, the message was clear: even casual affection between men is uncomfortable, even suspect. This isn’t just about humor—it’s about how deeply men have been conditioned to reject emotional intimacy unless it’s sexual or romantic. It teaches men that love is only acceptable when it’s directed toward women—and never something they’re allowed to give each other.

The way a man defines manhood is deeply connected to his mental health. When self-worth is rooted in unattainable standards, emotional suppression, or external validation, it creates a fragile identity—one that can crack under pressure, but never be safely revealed. Many men internalize this, and the result is disconnection—from themselves, from others, and from the full range of their emotional experience. They armor up. They push people away. They yell instead of cry. They shut down instead of speaking. They avoid intimacy or seek validation through hypersexuality—something especially visible in the Black community, where masculinity has often been distorted by both cultural conditioning and survival.

I’ve experienced this firsthand. I’ve been in relationships where the men were so out of touch with their feelings, they didn’t even recognize how emotionally shut down they were. One admitted he hadn’t cried when his grandmother died—or even when his mother died. He said he rarely cried at all, and yet, a single line in a movie could make him tear up. The emotions were there, but buried. He hadn’t dealt with his pain and didn’t know how to talk about his feelings. When things got hard, he ran or shut down instead of staying present and doing the work. Another relationship was with a man who barely shared anything. He didn’t talk much, said he was “private,” and conversations felt one-sided. When I expressed that I didn’t feel like I truly knew him, he quietly responded, “My mother doesn’t know me either.” That moment stuck with me. It made me wonder how well he knew himself. The truth is, he didn’t. And beneath that silence was unprocessed trauma—some of it he hadn’t even identified as trauma. It was just how he’d learned to live.

Underneath so much of this is shame. Shame for not measuring up. Shame for being afraid. Shame for needing something and not knowing how to ask for it. Patriarchy has harmed women deeply, but it has harmed men too—robbing them of softness, community, and emotional literacy. It replaces self-worth with performance. It teaches men that their only value lies in how much they can provide, how stoic they can be, and how little they seem to need anyone. But that’s not freedom. That’s a cage.

When men don’t feel like they’re meeting the expectations of masculinity—when they’re broke, struggling, unsure of themselves, or emotionally overwhelmed—they often isolate. They don’t want to be seen in their “failure.” They may lash out, shut down, overcompensate, or go numb. And while some are drowning, they’re still being praised for “keeping it together,” for “being strong,” for not breaking.

But strength isn’t the absence of emotion. It’s the courage to feel and still move forward. Masculinity doesn’t have to mean domination. It can mean devotion. It can mean presence. It can mean softness and depth.

Imagine if the boy who cried wasn’t shamed. Imagine if he was held. Imagine if he was told his tenderness was welcome. That being a man includes being honest, scared, loving, and kind. That being human is enough. Maybe that boy would grow into a man who knows how to love—and let himself be loved. Maybe he wouldn’t be so lonely.

If you're a man reading this, there are spaces for you. Therapy can help. So can books like The Will to Change or All About Love by bell hooks—both of which unpack the emotional damage of patriarchy and what’s possible when men begin to heal. If you’re not ready to talk, start by writing. If you’ve never cried, ask yourself why. If you’ve always said “I’m just private,” ask what you’re protecting. You don’t have to do everything alone. You were never meant to. But at some point, something has to shift. Because this isn't just about avoiding pain—it’s about transforming your relationships. It’s about showing up for your partner in a real way. It’s about being emotionally available to your children. It’s about modeling healthy love. It’s about making sure that at the end of your life, there’s someone who truly knows you—someone who doesn’t have to guess how you felt, because you told them. Someone who doesn’t have to carry your silence, because you chose to show up with truth. It's about making sure that at the end of your life - there's someone there. And maybe—if you start doing that now—you won’t have to keep turning to alcohol, weed, sex, or silence just to feel something, or to avoid feeling anything at all. Maybe you won’t be so lonely. Maybe you’ll finally feel free.