Men’s Mental Health Month reminds me of the Julia Reagan billboards that were all over Utah this summer. You probably saw them — her face, that smile, and the words “Gone but not Forgotten.” That’s exactly how men’s mental health feels to me. Not erased. Just moved to the background. Here, but quiet. Not gone — just overlooked.
As a single mom with two teenage daughters, men already feel fairly elusive. They are often the subject of carpooling conversations, “he’s such a baddie” or whatever phrase they are using right now. (I literally just asked for help from my youngest). The emotional landscape around women is so open now — support groups, mental health days, “do your healing” podcasts, therapy language baked into brunch conversations. And I love that. Women need that space because for so long we weren’t allowed to have it.
But men are still carrying so much on their own, quietly, under an invisible pressure that often goes unnoticed. Most of my clients have been women. And the men who do come in usually come in when something is falling apart.
There have been men I’ve worked with who were so honest and thoughtful and earnest — really trying to feel what they feel. And there have been others where everything was wrapped in armor — anger, humor, silence, distraction, ego — anything to avoid being seen as tender. Not because they won’t feel, but because they learned a long time ago that feeling is dangerous.
Growing up, the unspoken rule was simple: if you’re struggling, don’t let anyone see it. I remember hearing my brothers talk about push-up contests in junior high gym class, how everyone would push themselves to the edge of passing out just to avoid being humiliated. The message was clear: if you hurt, hide it. If you fall behind, pretend you’re fine. If you feel scared, swallow it
And then we wonder why men hesitate to walk into a therapist’s office. We cheer women on for going. But men often feel shame at just considering it. They say the heaviest lift at the gym is the front door. The heaviest lift in therapy is the office door.
It makes me think of those high school football photos. The whole team lined up, jaw set, shoulders tight, eyes looking past the camera at some imaginary horizon. Not a smile in sight. The face says: I am serious. I am unmovable. I’m not even feeling this ladies and gentlemen. I eat pain for breakfast.
Now try crying after that.
We have trained men to believe that strength means silence. That emotion is a liability. That tenderness is embarrassing. That needing someone makes you less of a man. And yet, here is what we see in therapy every day: strength was never the problem. The exact same endurance that lets a man push through physical pain — run on blistered feet, work through exhaustion, keep going when it hurts — is the same capacity needed to face emotional pain. It is the same muscle, just pointed in a different direction.
Emotional work doesn’t ask men to be softer. It asks them to stay with themselves when something hurts. To not abandon the part of them that is scared or grieving or overwhelmed. That is not weakness. That is courage.
If you are a man reading this, you don’t have to fall apart to deserve help. You don’t have to have the perfect words. You don’t even have to know where to start. You just have to lift open the front door. That is the hardest part. And it is enough. We can do the rest together.
