I work in a high-profile athletics program, one steeped in traditional masculinity. The environment is intense, where resilience and toughness are prized. The prevailing mindset is to confront challenges head-on—push through, be stronger. This culture permeates the lives of the student-athletes I encounter, all between the ages of 18 and 22. While they may be physically impressive, one of the most significant hurdles we face is helping them confront feelings of depression. It’s essential for them to understand that sometimes, powering through isn’t the answer. Homesickness, self-doubt, and the overwhelming pressures of both academics and athletics can weigh heavily.
In my years in this field, I’ve become aware of several troubling incidents, including suspected suicide attempts. The thought that my son is merely a decade away from experiencing similar pressures sends chills down my spine. I want him to know that it’s acceptable for men to express their feelings. It’s okay to cry, to feel sadness, and to seek help when needed.
I must admit, I don’t often cry myself. In fact, I’ve internalized this belief that crying is a weakness to the point where, on occasions when I should have shed tears, I found myself unable to do so. I might feel the familiar weight in my chest, the tremor in my hands, and the lump in my throat, yet the tears just won’t come. This is a struggle many men face; we are taught to build impenetrable walls around our emotions, often rendering us incapable of expressing what we truly feel.
While I recognize the importance of strength, I also want my children—especially my son—to understand the value of compassion and emotional expression. I want him to navigate the complexities of life with a full emotional range, but this is where my own limitations become evident. I strive to demonstrate emotional openness, but my personal history makes this challenging.
I didn’t cry when my father passed away, nor did I shed tears at my wedding or during the births of my children. In the nine years since becoming a parent, I have cried only once—when my youngest daughter had to visit the emergency room due to a burn. The inability to express emotion when it truly matters is something I need to address, but I also want to instill in my son the understanding that vulnerability is not a sign of weakness.
Recently, I noticed this struggle in my son, Ethan, after a soccer match. He had been playing as a goalie, his favorite role, but despite his best efforts, his team was losing, and frustration was evident on his face. As we stood on the sidelines after the game, I could see the tears welling up in his eyes, and I recognized the conflict he was experiencing—feeling that he shouldn’t cry simply because he is a boy. It reminded me of the walls I had built over the years.
Unlike my father, I didn’t dismiss his feelings with phrases like “toughen up” or “don’t be a baby.” Instead, I knelt down, wrapped my arms around him, and gently encouraged him, “It’s okay, buddy. Let it out; don’t hold back. Just let it go.” As he buried his face into my shoulder and cried, I felt a glimmer of hope.
I am determined to foster a space where he knows it’s healthy to express emotions and not feel ashamed of them. As we navigate this journey together, I want him to grow into a man who understands the strength in vulnerability, a lesson I am still learning myself.
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In summary, as a father, I aspire to break the cycle of emotional repression that many men face. I want my son to know that expressing feelings is not only acceptable but essential for his emotional well-being.