There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.
– Washington Irving
Grief is a journey, and for many men, it’s one we walk in silence. My own grief—stemming from miscarriages and multiple other sources, most profoundly, the death of my son Caleb by suicide at age 21—has taught me that men don’t often cry, at least not publicly. But when we do, it’s a flood: scary, huge, sloppy, and often private. It’s personal, raw, and, I hope, a bridge for others to see we’re not as stoic as we seem.
Societal Pressures
Society tells us men need to be strong, to hold it together, especially in loss. A 2024 survey by Sue Ryder found that 52% of men hide their emotions during grief to appear strong, and 80% feel alone in their pain. This isn’t just cultural; it’s ingrained from childhood, where boys are taught “real men don’t cry.” But this pressure can isolate us, pushing our grief inward, where it festers. Men are less likely to seek help, often mistaking grief symptoms like headaches or irritability for something else (Men and grief). This might be because they don’t recognize these symptoms as being related to their loss, or because they feel they should handle it on their own.
The Intensity of Private Grief
When I do cry, it’s not a quiet tear—it’s a storm. Sure, some days a tear will well up, but that’s not my normal. I am quiet and even keeled most of the time, stoic even. However, when it wants to, it’s like a severe thunderstorm with pouring rain and loud exclamations—raw, guttural yelling, full of anger and loss, like no one has ever seen me do. I’ve had these storms occur alone in my back yard or in my home office when the house is silent. It’s scary when it happens in my truck. I was driving one night to a rural area to meet a friend for stargazing. This was a favorite activity Caleb and I enjoyed. When a real thunderstorm occurs, windshield wipers help maintain visibility. That drive without Caleb wrecked me emotionally and could have wrecked the truck.
Research from Harvard Health suggests crying acts as a safety valve, releasing stress hormones and helping us process pain (Is crying good for you?). For men, this release can be rare but intense, a necessary outlet for grief we’ve held tight. Studies link repressing emotions to health issues like cardiovascular disease and anxiety, underscoring why those private tears, though scary, are vital.
You have kept count of my tossings; put my tears in your bottle”
– Psalm 56:8, ESV
Faith: A Double-Edged Sword
Faith has been both my anchor and my question mark. Scriptures like Psalm 34:18, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted”, offer comfort, reminding me I’m not alone. But grief also brings doubts: Why did Caleb die? Why did we lose our children, Emily and Alex, through miscarriage? These questions are part of my faith journey, and wrestling with them has deepened my relationship with God, even in pain. However, even the hope of seeing our loved ones again does not negate the hurt of missing them now.
A Message for Us All
To my fellow men: It’s okay to cry, even if it’s in private. It’s not weakness; it’s human. Find a safe space to let go. To those supporting us: Be patient. We might not show our grief like others, but it’s there, deep and real. Grief is a personal path. By acknowledging our tears, we can reduce the societal pressure to always appear strong—one tear at a time. As we learn to embrace our tears, both in private and perhaps one day in semi-private spaces, we can find support and connection. Remember, it’s okay to grieve, to cry, and to seek support when you need it.
To those who are not men, or who have not experienced this kind of grief, I hope this post gives you a glimpse into what it’s like for many men. Please remember that just because we might not show our emotions openly, it doesn’t mean we’re not feeling them deeply. Your support and patience can make a world of difference.
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