I’ve been wrestling lately with this idea: why is emotional vulnerability so difficult for men? It’s a question I’ve circled for a long time, amplified recently by Terry Real’s powerful book, I Don’t Want to Talk About It, and reinforced by my curiosity about the potential effectiveness and importance of men’s groups – groups where men gather to openly share struggles, fears, and vulnerabilities—precisely the things we are conditioned to hide.
This openness, however, feels starkly at odds with my daily reality. I’ve written before about the rough patch my marriage has been experiencing. It’s complicated, awkward, and deeply unsettling. I am optimistic we’ll emerge stronger on the other side—but the path there isn’t straightforward. Yet, when I look around my community, I’ve never once heard another man acknowledge similar struggles openly. I’ve never heard a friend, colleague, or neighbor say plainly: “I’m going through something tough with my wife.” This makes me question my own relationship and whether we really can get through these struggles.
It’s not just marriages, either. There’s a pervasive need among men to project success: the salary, their fitness, the job title, the confidence, and yes, even the seemingly perfect marriage. Recently, I discovered someone in my community— known for boasting about how incredible his marriage is—is quietly attending couples therapy. My first reaction was confusion. Why the charade? Why claim a perfect marriage publicly, only to hide the messy, authentic work behind closed doors?
Reflecting deeper, I realize that I’ve perpetuated this silence myself. I’ve dealt privately with a host of struggles over the last 20 years: panic disorder, bulimia, anxiety, numerous rounds of therapy, workplace anxieties, and emotional turbulence at home. Yet, I’ve rarely, if ever, felt comfortable opening up about these things with other men. Instead, my vulnerability has consistently found safe harbor in conversations with women—friends, former girlfriends, and now my wife. With them, I can let down my guard, reveal my insecurities, and find support without fear of judgment.
But why is vulnerability with men so much harder?
Maybe part of it is cultural conditioning, deeply embedded ideas about masculinity equating vulnerability with weakness. A big part of it is the fear of judgment, the dread that other men will see struggles as failure, weakness, or inadequacy – why would that person then want to hire me, or be a business partner? Shame—silently nurtured, rarely challenged—that prevents us from sharing openly. The unspoken yet omnipresent competition, the toxic belief that admitting difficulty somehow diminishes our worth.
How much healthier might we be if we broke that silence? What if men openly acknowledged their struggles—not to wallow, but to normalize the messy parts of life? What would it take for me personally to overcome the barriers that keep me quiet?
I’m curious if others have seen vulnerability modeled positively by men in their lives. What changed as a result?
I also wonder: what’s the worst that could happen if we were honest? And perhaps more importantly, what’s the best?
These aren’t easy questions, but they feel critical. Authenticity, integrity, growth—all themes at the heart of this blog—demand confronting them. So I’m starting here, asking openly, exploring aloud. Because perhaps the only way to find answers is to finally talk about it.
Long Short Way 