Undoing Toxic: Why “Being Strong” Is Hurting Men

Happy Sunday and welcome back to the Undoing Toxic Blog. The month of June holds a lot. In the mental health field, we focus on highlighting men’s mental health and we also celebrate Father’s Day. To kick off June’s first blog in line with Men's Mental Health Month, I would like to pose the question: where are the men?

A Reflection: Where are the Men?

As a therapist working with individuals, couples, and families over the years, I can count on one hand the number of male therapy-seekers I have worked with compared to women. Across race, class, education levels, and other social identities, the disparity has always been striking.

I have sat on panels, participated in discussions, and joined conversations centered on the same concern: How do we get men into therapy? How do we get Black men and other men of color to buy into the therapeutic process? How do we create spaces where men can be accountable for their behavior while also having room to be human? How do we offer an experience that feels different from the judgment, criticism, or emotional isolation many have come to expect?

The truth is, I don't have a perfect answer. What I do have are years of observations, both professionally and personally. Especially in couples’ therapy, some of the questions we are invited to ask is, “Whose idea was it to come in?” and finally, “Who made the call?” I think these questions can also be posed to individuals. Like many people who seek any type of help, it is rarely in isolation without the support of others, or community. We often hear variations of the following: “my wife, or my girl, my family. A friend told me to try it, be open. Give it a shot. I never did this before. This is different. I don’t really talk about my problems. Where I am from, we don’t do this, etc.”

Here is something that meets in the middle of my personal and professional observations: The men are carrying a lot.

The conversations I have with male friends, colleagues, and trusted confidants often reveal a reality that isn't always visible from the outside. Many of them know structure. They know responsibility. They know how to show up for work, take care of family, solve problems, and keep moving.

They know how to be needed. What they often don't know is where to put their own emotional experiences.

Many describe feeling like the shoulder everyone cries on, the person everyone calls during a crisis, the one expected to have the answers. When trusted, they are often the providers of emotional labor rather than recipients of it. And perhaps most importantly, many do not trust that the people around them can hold what they are carrying.

That part deserves our attention.

Vulnerability and Consequences

There is plenty of conversation about men needing to open up, but there is far less conversation about what happens when they do. Many men have learned that vulnerability comes with consequences. They have experienced their fears minimized, their emotions dismissed, or their struggles used against them later, or weaponized in conflict. Some have learned that the moment they stop being the strong one, people become uncomfortable. And this can be true of women too, stepping outside of our usual role, people do not know what to say or how to show up for us. We are often the ones providing this emotional space and safety for others.

So, as a result, the men learn to adapt.

They compartmentalize. Putting things, people, and situations in “neat” categories.

They focus on work.

They focus on routine.

They stay busy.

They keep moving.

Not because they don't have feelings, but because they don't always know where those feelings can safely go.

As women, many of us can relate to this. We know what it feels like to be the reliable one, the caretaker, the problem solver. But for many men, these expectations are reinforced from childhood in ways that leave very little room for emotional development.

“Boy Pickney Fi Grow Tough”: Early Lessons

Growing up Jamaican, we often hear strong messaging with intentions of love and protection. If we are being honest, the expectations for boys and girls were often different. Girls could be corrected, disciplined, and expected to behave. Boys are often disciplined more harshly, both physically and verbally. Tears are discouraged. Sensitivity is viewed as weakness. Vulnerability is treated as something that needs to be removed before the world gets to them first.

"Boy pickney fi grow tough." A boy child must grow tough.

Many Caribbean families will recognize the sentiment immediately. Parents want their sons to survive. They want them prepared for a world that may not be kind to them. They want them to be resilient, independent, and capable of handling whatever comes their way.

But I often wonder about the long-term cost. If boys are repeatedly taught to suppress pain rather than process it, where does all of that pain go?

In my work and in my personal life, I have often noticed that some of the most complicated and emotionally charged relationships are between fathers and sons. Yet unlike many mother-daughter conflicts that eventually force conversations, father-son tensions often become characterized by silence. Meanwhile, mothers, sisters, partners, and other family members are often left trying to bridge the gap, pleading for reconciliation, encouraging communication, or simply asking both men to be civil enough to share a room during holidays and family gatherings.

What strikes me most is that underneath many of these conflicts, both men are often searching for the same thing. The son may be longing for approval, affirmation, understanding, or emotional closeness from his father. The father may be longing for respect, appreciation, connection, or forgiveness. Both are hurting. Both feel misunderstood. Both may desperately want a safe place to land with one another. Yet neither knows how to create it.

And perhaps that is part of the tragedy. Many men are expected to learn emotional resilience from other men who were never given permission to be emotionally vulnerable themselves. One generation teaches the next how to survive, but not necessarily how to connect. The result can be relationships built on obligation, provision, discipline, and sacrifice, yet lacking the emotional intimacy that both people quietly crave. This reality raises an interesting question for me, one I am still reflecting on. Is this part of the reason so many men seek emotional refuge in women? Not simply in romantic relationships, but in friendships, family relationships, and other connections as well. Is it because women are inherently better at handling emotions? I don't think so. But I do wonder whether many men grow up learning that emotional safety is more available with women than with other men. If vulnerability feels risky among men, if emotional disclosure is met with ridicule, dismissal, or discomfort, then it makes sense that many would turn elsewhere when they need support.

When Silence Becomes Survival

There is another cultural layer worth acknowledging as well. Growing up, many of us received clear messages about privacy and family matters. We heard phrases like “What happens in the house stays in the house.” We were taught not to carry family business outside the home. We were reminded that people are quick to talk, quick to judge, and quick to spread information that was shared in confidence. There is wisdom in that lesson. Not everyone deserves access to your story. At the same time, when privacy becomes secrecy and secrecy becomes isolation, people can find themselves carrying burdens they were never meant to carry alone. Many men are navigating not only messages about toughness, but also messages about silence. Don't cry. Don't complain. Don't let people know your business. Don't let anyone see you struggle. Don't give people anything to talk about.

Over time, silence becomes a survival strategy. The challenge is that what helps us survive in one season of life can become the very thing that prevents us from healing in another. The emotional walls that protected a boy may eventually isolate a man. And when enough men are carrying pain in silence, we shouldn't be surprised when that pain eventually shows up somewhere else; in relationships, in conflict, in depression, in anger, or in the growing distance between people who love each other but no longer know how to reach one another.

I think when it comes to men, sometimes we have more questions than answers:

• What happens when a child learns that sadness is unacceptable?

• What happens when fear has no place to go?

• What happens when tenderness becomes something to hide?

• What happens when a boy becomes a man who knows how to survive but struggles to connect?

The answer often shows up years later in relationships. And this is where conversations about men can become complicated. We live in a time where discussions about dating and relationships are often polarized. Men are labeled avoidant, emotionally unavailable, commitment-phobic, narcissistic, or unwilling to communicate. To be clear, some men absolutely avoid difficult conversations. Some disappear when accountability is required. Some seek comfort elsewhere rather than addressing problems directly.

Undoing Toxic: Breaking the Pattern

But if we are serious about understanding some of the behaviors of men, we have to ask a deeper question: Where did they learn that?

If a person spends decades learning that emotions are dangerous, vulnerability is weakness, and asking for help is failure, why are we surprised when intimacy feels threatening?

As therapists, partners, friends, and family members, I believe we can hold two truths at the same time. We can acknowledge the harm that emotional avoidance causes in relationships while also remaining curious about how that avoidance developed in the first place. Accountability and compassion do not have to compete with one another.

What I find equally interesting are the men who do not fit many of the stereotypes we hear about. The men who stay when conversations become uncomfortable. The men who communicate openly. The men who don't run away or ghost when relationships become difficult. The men who can tolerate discomfort, engage in conflict, and remain emotionally present.

Whenever I encounter these men, professionally or personally, I find myself asking the same questions: What was different? Who taught them that? What experiences helped them understand that vulnerability and strength are not opposites? Because somewhere along the way, they learned something many others did not. They learned that emotional honesty is not weakness. They learned that conflict does not automatically lead to rejection or abandonment. They learned that intimacy requires courage and that trust is built through vulnerability, not avoidance.

Perhaps one of the greatest misconceptions many men inherit is the belief that strength means carrying everything alone. We often celebrate endurance, sacrifice, and self-reliance. Yet endurance and healing are not the same thing. Surviving and processing are not the same thing. Being needed and being known are not the same thing.

Many men have become skilled at functioning while hurting. They continue showing up for work, family, and responsibilities while carrying grief, stress, fear, loneliness, or disappointment that few people ever see. The problem is that what remains unprocessed rarely disappears. More often, it shows up somewhere else: in relationships, in conflict, in anxiety, in anger, or in a growing sense of disconnection.

Closing Reflection

As Men's Mental Health Month continues, I find myself less interested in asking why men don’t come to therapy and more interested in asking what messages they received about needing help in the first place. What were they taught about emotions? What happened when they expressed sadness, fear, or vulnerability? Who taught them that asking for support was weakness?

Because many of the struggles we see in adulthood do not begin in adulthood at all. They begin with the lessons children learn about which parts of themselves are welcome and which parts must be hidden.

What if emotional awareness was taught as a life skill? What if honesty, vulnerability, and repair were viewed as strengths rather than shortcomings? What if we stopped teaching men only how to endure and started teaching them how to feel?

Perhaps healing doesn't begin when men become stronger. Perhaps it begins when they are finally given permission to be fully human. Because many of the relationship struggles we see in adulthood don't begin in adulthood at all. They begin with the lessons children learn about what parts of themselves are welcome and what parts must be hidden. Healing begins when we stop asking men to be stronger and start giving them permission to be fully human.

Thank you for reading.

Let’s connect. Email me: moniqueevanstherapy@gmail.com

Accepting individual, couples, and family clients (self-pay and select insurance via headway.co- Monique Evans, LCSW)

For social work clinicians, I also offer clinical consultation meetings (Not to be confused with clinical supervision for licensure hours) at any level of practice.

Book me as your mental health presenter for speaking engagements, podcasts, panels, and presentations.

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