I work in a competitive athletics environment where masculinity reigns supreme. The culture is one of toughness, where the mantra is to push through challenges with sheer strength and determination. The young athletes I interact with daily, aged 18 to 22, are all physically impressive—strong, fast, and skilled. However, one of the biggest hurdles we face is addressing the mental health of these young men, especially when it comes to understanding that sometimes, powering through isn’t the solution. They experience homesickness, feelings of inadequacy, and the overwhelming pressures of college life and sports.
In my time in this role, I’ve become aware of several incidents involving mental health crises, including suspected suicide attempts. The thought that my son will soon be in the same age group as these college athletes fills me with anxiety. I desperately want him to understand that it’s perfectly acceptable for a man to express emotions. It’s okay to cry; it’s okay to feel sorrow; it’s okay to seek help when needed.
Ironically, while I recognize the importance of emotional expression, I find it difficult myself. Crying has become so ingrained as a taboo for me that I often struggle to do it, even when I know I should. I can feel the build-up of emotions—the tightness in my chest, the tremor in my hands, the lump in my throat—but releasing those feelings into tears often feels impossible. This struggle reflects a broader societal issue where men are taught to build fortresses around their emotions, making it hard to be vulnerable when it truly matters.
I want my son, and my daughters as well, to be resilient. I want them to stand tall and confidently ask for what they need. But I also want them to embody compassion and navigate the whirlwind of emotions that come with family life. This is particularly challenging with my son, as I grapple with my own inability to model emotional openness.
After my father’s passing, I didn’t shed a tear. I didn’t cry during my wedding or when my children were born. In fact, since becoming a father nine years ago, I’ve only cried once—when my daughter had a serious injury. I’m aware that this emotional suppression isn’t healthy, and I need to work on it. However, I still strive to teach my son that showing emotion is not a sign of weakness.
Recently, I noticed something that made me pause. After a tough soccer game, my son, Lucas, displayed raw emotion. He plays goalie, his favorite position, and found himself in a challenging situation where his teammates seemed to give up. Despite his best efforts to block shots, the opposing team scored several goals. When the match ended, I saw frustration etched on his face, and I knew he was holding back tears—caught in the same internal struggle I often face.
Instead of dismissing his feelings like my father once did, I knelt beside him and said, “Let it out, buddy. Don’t hold back. Just let it out. Trust me.” He nodded and then buried his face in my shoulder, allowing the tears to flow.
This moment served as a reminder of the importance of emotional expression and the need to break the cycle of stoicism. If you’re interested in further exploring the importance of emotional expression in parenting and its impact, check out this insightful post on Cervical Insemination.
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In summary, as a father, I strive to create an environment where my children, especially my son, feel free to express their emotions. Through my own struggles with vulnerability, I aim to set an example that tears are not a weakness, but a natural part of being human.
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