I work in a highly competitive college athletics environment. It’s a place where toughness reigns supreme, and the prevailing attitude is to bulldoze through any challenge. The student-athletes I interact with—ages 18 to 22—are all about strength and speed, but one of the biggest hurdles we face is helping them recognize and confront their feelings, especially depression. Sometimes, it’s not about powering through; it’s about acknowledging when you’re homesick or overwhelmed.
In my years in this field, I’ve heard of a few distressing incidents, including suspected suicide attempts. Knowing my son will soon be in the same age bracket as these athletes makes my heart race with worry. I want him to understand that it’s completely acceptable for a man to show his emotions. Crying, expressing sadness, or asking for help should not be seen as weaknesses.
Now, I’m not the kind of guy who cries often. In fact, I’ve built up a mental fortification against tears. There have been moments where I felt the urge to cry, but I just couldn’t. It’s a strange dichotomy of wanting to feel and being unable to express it. I worry that I’m inadvertently passing this stoic mentality on to my kids, especially my son.
Sure, I want him to be strong, just like I do for my two daughters. I want all my children to confidently express their needs and desires. But I also want them to show compassion and navigate the complex emotions that come with family life.
The irony is that, while I want my son to know it’s perfectly fine to cry, I’m not always the best role model in that department. When my father passed away, I didn’t shed a tear. Not at my wedding, not during the births of my children—except for that one time when my youngest daughter had to go to the emergency room due to a burn.
I feel like I need to work on being more emotionally available. Recently, my son, Jake, cried after a soccer match. He was playing goalie—his favorite position—and his team was down by two. With only 20 minutes left, the rest of the boys started to lose hope. Despite Jake’s incredible saves, the opposing team scored four more goals.
After the game, we stood on the sidelines together. I could see he was holding back tears, grappling with the notion that boys shouldn’t cry. I didn’t want to repeat the mistakes of my past; I didn’t tell him to toughen up or dismiss his feelings. Instead, I leaned down, wrapped him in a hug, and whispered, “Let it out, buddy. Don’t fight it. Just let it out. Trust me.”
He nodded, buried his face in my shoulder, and finally let the tears flow. It was a moment of connection I hope he remembers.