Working in a high-pressure athletic environment, I’m surrounded by a culture that emphasizes toughness and resilience. Everyone here believes in pushing through obstacles, whether they be physical or emotional. The student-athletes I interact with are mostly between the ages of 18 to 22, and while they all possess impressive strength and speed, one of the biggest challenges we face—especially with male athletes—is addressing issues of mental health. It’s crucial for them to understand that there are times when powering through isn’t the solution. Sometimes, they feel homesick, sometimes they struggle with their performance, and sometimes the overwhelming demands of college life just get to them.
In my time working in athletics, I’ve come across a few alarming incidents, including suspected suicide attempts. This reality strikes a chord with me, especially knowing my son is only ten years younger than these young athletes. I want him to understand that it’s perfectly acceptable for a man to express his feelings, to cry, and to seek help when needed.
I’m not the type to cry often; in fact, I’ve conditioned myself to view crying as something to avoid. There have been moments when I felt the urge to let it out, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so. Despite feeling the physical signs of sadness—like a tight chest and shaky hands—I just couldn’t cry. This struggle to express emotions is something many men face; we’re often raised to build up emotional barriers, making it hard to show vulnerability.
I realize this isn’t a healthy approach, and it’s not something I want for my son. I want him to be strong, but I also want him to be empathetic. I hope he can manage the emotional complexities of life, especially as he grows and starts his own family.
This is where my personal conflict lies. While I want to teach my son that expressing emotions is okay, I often feel like a poor role model. I didn’t shed a tear when my father passed away, nor when I married or welcomed my children into the world. In nine years as a father, the only time I cried was the day my daughter had a frightening accident.
I’m not sure if I can cry when it really counts, and that’s something I need to work on. But I’m committed to ensuring my son knows it’s okay to express his feelings. Lately, I’ve noticed he doesn’t cry much anymore, and it makes me wonder if he’s starting to build those same emotional walls.
A few months ago, after a soccer match—his favorite sport—he experienced a moment that struck me hard. He played goalie and felt the weight of disappointment when his team lost. After the game, I saw the frustration on his face; he was fighting back tears. I recognized that look; it’s a struggle I’m all too familiar with—the internal battle over whether it’s acceptable for a man to cry.
Instead of repeating the mantra I grew up with—to toughen up or shake it off—I took a different approach. I bent down, pulled him into a hug, and whispered, “Let it out, buddy. Don’t hold back. Just let it out. Trust me.” I could feel him nodding as he buried his face in my shoulder, allowing his tears to flow.
In moments like these, I hope to instill in him the understanding that vulnerability is strength, not weakness. For more insights on navigating parenting and emotional well-being, check out this post, which covers related topics.
In summary, as a father who struggles with emotional expression, I want my son to understand that it’s okay to feel and show his emotions. I aim to lead by example, even as I work through my own challenges in this area.