“Masculinity was never meant to be an armour, but somewhere along the line, we forged it into steel and taught boys to live inside it.”

It was a cold, relentless evening, the kind where the wind howls through the cracks of your windows, and the rain seems like it's never going to stop. My fingers, stiff and numb, were barely able to wrap around the warm mug of tea I had made. I could hardly feel my hand, just a dull, aching coldness that spread through me as I sank into the cushions of my navy couch. Simba, my faithful companion, curled up next to me, her fur soft and comforting against the chill. The news blared in the background, their monotone voices declaring that snow was on the way, though I couldn’t imagine anything colder than the world outside.

I flicked the remote, half-heartedly switching channels. That’s when it came on, Modern Family. A show I had seen a hundred times before, but tonight, it felt different. Tonight, it wasn’t just a sitcom. It was something deeper. The laughter of the audience faded as the scene began.

There he was, Jay Pritchett, standing tall in front of his family. But it wasn’t the usual sharp wit or dry humour that he was known for. Instead, there was a rawness in his eyes, something I hadn’t noticed before. He was speaking about his past, about how his father had taught him to suppress his feelings instead of dealing with them. His voice, steady at first, began to crack as he recounted the pain. I couldn’t help but listen closely, feeling his words wrap around my chest, squeezing harder with each sentence.

He talked about how, when he was young, his father’s friend had cut his finger, and yet, the man worked until the end of his shift, never acknowledging the pain. Jay recalled how he had broken his collarbone while playing but kept going, only to pass out from the agony. His father’s voice echoed in his memory, “Be tough.” The words felt like a mantra, like a command, and they lingered in the room, suffocating in their simplicity.

Then, Jay spoke about his first heartbreak, the one that had shattered him completely. The pain of loss, of love gone wrong, and his father’s response was just as cold: “Eat your sandwich, forget about it”. No room for tears. No space for sorrow. "Feelings? Huh," Jay scoffed, "I didn’t even cry at his funeral. The guy was my whole world. Everybody looking at me like I didn’t love him."

But it was the moment that followed that hit hardest. Jay’s face crumpled, his voice quivering as he muttered, "He knew. He had to know, right?" The sadness and confusion in his words tore through me, cutting deeper than I had expected.

That scene… it stayed with me long after the episode ended. The weight of Jay’s words lingered in the room, pressing down on my chest. I couldn't shake the questions that had sprung to my mind. How many men, just like Jay, had grown up with that same unspoken rule: be tough? How many had been told that their feelings didn’t matter, that vulnerability was a weakness? Where did this belief come from? Was it something passed down through generations, like an invisible chain?

The questions buzzed in my mind, louder and louder, until I couldn’t ignore them anymore. It wasn’t just Jay’s pain I felt, it was the collective pain of all those who had been told, in one form or another, to hide their hearts behind a wall. I knew I had to understand it more, to dig deeper, to uncover why this was the way men were taught to be.

Where Did This Belief Come From?
The roots are older than most of us realise. They thread through centuries of patriarchy, colonial conquest, and war, eras that demanded men be unyielding, emotionally armoured, and, above all, in control. Emotion, in those times, was not just inconvenient; it was dangerous. It got men killed on battlefields. It questioned authority in households. It softened the hard lines needed to survive in systems built on dominance.

These ideals didn’t disappear; they adapted. They crept into parenting books, education policies, and cultural norms. They became law in the unwritten curriculum of childhood: Don’t cry. Don’t break. Don’t feel too much.

Ireland
In the rolling green hills and misty towns of Ireland, masculinity often wears a hardened mask, one shaped by decades of Catholic influence, rural isolation, and intergenerational hardship. Here, to be a man has long meant to endure quietly, to labour with pride, and to hold your pain like a secret buried beneath the soil. The “hard man” image still lingers in pubs and parishes, where emotional vulnerability is often viewed with discomfort, or worse, suspicion. The cost?
Ireland continues to grapple with some of the highest male suicide rates in Europe. Though conversations are starting to open, stigma still coils tightly around mental health, especially in small towns where privacy is sacred and showing weakness feels like betrayal.

Australia
Under the wide, sun-scorched skies of Australia, the archetype of the rugged, self-reliant “Aussie bloke” endures. He’s laid-back on the surface, often deflecting pain with a joke or a beer, but underneath, there’s a deep reluctance to be seen as anything other than unshakable. Humour becomes a shield. Banter replaces honesty. Vulnerability is something you may whisper about, if you do at all.
To its credit, Australia has launched numerous mental health campaigns, from R U OK? Day to Beyond Blue, and these have sparked vital national conversations. But in many workplaces, locker rooms, and rural communities, the expectation to “tough it out” still holds sway. Behind the smiles, too many men are silently unravelling

South Asia
In the crowded cities and quiet villages of South Asia, masculinity is deeply intertwined with honour, responsibility, and restraint. Here, a man is expected to be the backbone of the family, the decision-maker, the unshakable rock. To show vulnerability is not just personal weakness; it’s a threat to the family’s reputation.
The idea of therapy, in many places, is not just unfamiliar, it’s taboo. Speaking to a stranger about inner turmoil is often viewed as indulgent, unnecessary, or shameful. Mental health struggles are hidden, whispered about behind closed doors, or spiritualized into silence. Especially in rural and traditional households, the emotional well-being of men is rarely discussed until it becomes a crisis. And these ideas aren’t just passed down in families. They’re beamed into homes through films, music, and media, reinforcing over and over what a man “should” be.

Take Bollywood, for instance. One of its most famous lines, “Mard ko dard nahi hota” (A real man doesn’t feel pain), isn’t just cinematic drama. It’s a cultural doctrine. For decades, the stoic, emotionally-unavailable hero has dominated South Asian screens: a man who suffers in silence, solves problems with violence, and never asks for help. Love, when it appears, is often pursued through persistence or dominance, not vulnerability. Even grief is stylised, a single tear, a clenched jaw, a longing gaze. But rarely do we see these heroes crack open, break down, or speak the language of emotional honesty.

Hollywood is no different. From the lone wolf of action films to the brooding anti-hero, masculinity in Western cinema has been sold as a cocktail of stoicism, toughness, and emotional detachment. Men like Rambo, James Bond, and even Batman have long been symbols of power, but rarely of softness. Therapy is mocked. Vulnerability is minimised. Real men, these films say, walk alone, bleed silently, and bury their feelings beneath bravado.

The language of masculinity may differ, but the pressure to suppress emotion, to perform strength, and to bury pain runs heartbreakingly global.

What’s so often overlooked is that this kind of masculinity costs everyone something.

It steals from boys their birthright to be whole. It starves them of language for their inner world. It trains them to be emotionally illiterate, then shames them for not knowing how to speak the language of intimacy when they grow into partners, fathers, and friends.

And worse, it creates generations of men who look strong on the outside, but are fractured within. Men who cope through silence, rage, addiction, and detachment. Men who crumble in private but smile in public. Men who believe asking for help is a betrayal of their manhood.

The Silent Face of Male Mental Health

Depression in men rarely looks like sadness. It can look like snapping at loved ones, overworking, zoning out at dinner, or numbing with alcohol. This is depression in disguise,  not weakness, but worn-out armour.

Anxiety doesn’t always present as panic. It looks like control issues, restlessness, detachment, and overachievement. “I can’t relax,” they say. And we dismiss it as just part of being a man.

Suicidal ideation is a crisis buried beneath silence. Men are up to four times more likely to die by suicide, not because they suffer more, but because they were never taught to speak up.

Addiction is often grief in disguise, a coping mechanism when expressing pain isn’t safe. The drink, the drug, the bet, they’re not about thrill, they’re about escape.

Loneliness grows as male friendships wither. Emotions are replaced with banter. Vulnerability replaced with silence. And so many men are alone, even in a crowded room.

PTSD lives in more than war stories. It lives in childhood trauma, racial violence, and heartbreak. But it gets missed because men are taught to say, “I’m fine,” when they’re anything but.

How to Support Men’s Mental Health
To create a world where men’s mental health is supported and understood, we need to begin rethinking and reworking the ways we teach emotional expression, build vulnerability, and foster connection at every stage of life. The strategies below focus on the transformation of the personal, familial, and societal frameworks that shape how men, from boys to fathers, experience their emotions and mental well-being. The key to this lies in promoting early intervention, redefining masculinity, normalising mental health conversations, and creating safe spaces for emotional expression. Here’s how we can do it:

Start Early: Foundations in Early Childhood Education and Care (ECEC)

The groundwork for emotional literacy must begin at the earliest stages of childhood. Early Childhood Education (ECEC) is not just about ABCs; it’s about shaping emotional intelligence. Boys need to be equipped with the skills to identify, understand, and express their emotions, skills that are often ignored or suppressed from an early age.

Normalize Conversations About Mental Health

Conversations about emotions, mental health, and vulnerability must be a regular part of everyday life. This includes both formal spaces (like therapy or counselling) and informal ones (like the dinner table, locker rooms, or living rooms). We need to normalize asking men, “What’s going on with you?” and listening when they express that something is heavy, difficult, or painful.

Redefine Strength and Masculinity

One of the central challenges in supporting men’s mental health is dismantling the traditional view of masculinity, one that values emotional stoicism and discourages vulnerability. The idea that to be "strong" is to suppress emotions needs to be replaced with the belief that true strength lies in emotional integrity.

 Role Modelling from Fathers, Partners, and Mentors
Boys learn not only from what they are told but also from what they witness. Positive role models, especially fathers, can make a profound difference by showing how to balance masculinity with mental well-being.

Trauma-Informed Practices and Healing
Many men carry silent, generational trauma, including the trauma of being raised in environments that discouraged emotional expression. To help men heal, we must approach their mental health with compassion, patience, and a deep understanding of how their past experiences shape their present behaviours.

Culturally Responsive Support Systems
Men’s experiences with mental health vary based on their cultural background. Therapy, support networks, and mental health resources must be accessible, respectful, and culturally sensitive to ensure they resonate with diverse populations.

Long-Term Cultural Shift
Ultimately, this work isn’t about quick fixes; it’s about creating a cultural shift that respects men’s mental health as much as their physical well-being.

If we raise fathers who are present, partners who are connected, and boys who are self-aware, we can create a future where men are empowered to embrace their full emotional range. Through early intervention, redefining strength, fostering open conversations, and creating culturally responsive, trauma-informed spaces, we can ensure that men’s mental health is not just acknowledged but celebrated. The time to rewrite the script is now, and with intentional effort, we can raise a generation of emotionally connected men who can feel deeply, love fearlessly, and live fully.