Boys Don’t Cry But Men Do

And as women, we can comfort them, as mothers, friends, and partners.

“Boys Don’t Cry” a classic 80's song by The Cure is about a man reflecting on his past relationship and coming to terms with the fact that there is nothing he can do to fix things.

He wants to apologize to his ex, but knowing it won’t do any good. The message of the song is that even though it is difficult, it is important to be honest with oneself and accept the emotions that come with a break-up, even if it means admitting to being vulnerable.

When I asked my boyfriend about his past relationships, he talked to me about the women who hurt him and the ones he’d hurt.

I was particularly taken by this confession he made to me. He said: “I truly hurt a woman. I wish I could find her to apologize for how I made her suffer. It kills me that I can’t say I’m sorry.”

Conditioning and why men struggle to show vulnerability

Do you remember when you were little and you were scared? When mom or dad came by your side and said don't be scared? When they tried to soothe your pain by distraction? Or said you’re too big to cry, too big to be silly, too big to be scared?

When our parents don't validate our feelings, we become adults who don’t know how to navigate our feelings.

If we don't validate our children’s feelings as parents, we raise kids who will become adults struggling to navigate relationships.

My parents were neither cold-hearted, abusive, or negligent. Yet in their best efforts to ensure my brother and I were happy children, they didn't fully acknowledge, accept, and validate our sadness.

We weren't sad all the time, but things would happen at school, or home that would make us feel sad, upset, or angry. Happiness is not a constant.

My brother was getting beaten up a lot at primary school. It was the 80s. The term bullying was not even coined at the time. He’d come back home with bruises and my dad would take care of him, saying, “My brave little boy, come now, don’t cry.”

It took 2 years of my brother coming back home beaten up for my parents to make a decision and change his school.

He never got beaten again. His bruises are still there, today, age 50.

Gabor Maté says “Trauma is not what happens to you, it’s what happens inside you as a result of what happened to you. Trauma is that scarring that makes you less. flexible, more rigid, less feeling and more defended.”

As hard as it is for a parent to accept their child may be experiencing deep sadness or fear, it is the most important that they do. They accompany their child to process this feeling and eventually feel better.

It’s an opportunity to train your child to talk about their feelings too.

I vividly remember my brother after his first breakup. Locked in his room for days, crying, not facing any of the family. My mother was devastated, suffering seeing her beloved son so sad. Each morning, noon, and evening she’d knock on his door, dropping a meal next to his bed, holding his hand for a moment, if he’d let her. He was too proud and didn't want any of us to see him in that state.

A few days later he opened his door and rejoined the family, outside of the shell of his bedroom. He never spoke a word about how he felt about his breakup. To neither one of us.

The first time I saw my dad cry he was in his late 40s. I was 10. That day his mom had passed. I saw him down on his knees, his heart shuttered, sobbing, and it was all new information.

Ever since that day, seeing a 40-year-old man cry has had the same effect on me.

It pushes everything empathetic and compassionate inside me, it makes me want to envelop them in my arms, and at the same time, I feel relief that they can let out the tears, allow themselves to express sensitivity, and let their body do its work to process emotions.

We were lying in bed at night when my boyfriend woke up with tears in his eyes.

It was the first time I saw tears in his eyes. It was the first time he cried in a long time.

When I asked him a few days later, he said he couldn't remember the last time he’d cried.

I instinctively took him in my arms, noticing his initial hesitation followed by letting go and surrendering in my embrace. A few moments later he was sound asleep. His pillowcase still wet.

The next day I read him the first page of one of my favorite books, Information, written by Martin Amis.

Cities at night, I feel, contain men who cry in their sleep and then say Nothing, it’s nothing just sad dreams. Richard was crying in his sleep. The woman beside him, woke and turned. She moved up on him from behind and laid hands on his pale and straining shoulders. There was a professionalist inher blinks and frowns and whispers: like the person at the poolside, trained in first aid; like the figure surging in on the blood-smeared macadam, a striging Christ of mouth-to-mouth. She was a woman. She knewso much more about tears than he did. “What is it?” she said. “Nothing. It isn’t anything. Just sad dreams.”

It was now he who took me in his arms. He said: “Ι promise. I will never say it’s nothing when I cry. I trust you and I am willing to show you my most sensitive, vulnerable self.”