4. Stop Asking Men to Speak If You Don’t Want to Hear Them
We’re told to open up. To speak. To share how we feel. But what happens when honesty isn’t met with understanding — but with judgement, silence, or blame?
We’ve all heard the statistics. Men account for three-quarters of suicides in the UK. It’s become a familiar soundbite, a tragic fact we’re reminded of every time Men's Mental Health Awareness Month rolls around each November.
Three times as many men as women die by suicide.
Just once more so you can really let it sink in:
Three times as many men as women die by suicide…THREE TIMES.
But what happens after the crisis? When a man does reach out, not just with his words but with his whole being, what does he find?
I know what I found. A hospital bed. A few pills in my body. And then, a system that wasn’t set up to help me get well, only to keep me stable enough to leave. The people were well-meaning. Some even kind. But nothing I said was met with real understanding or resolution I never felt heard, safe or understood in any way.
It took me weeks to get out of the system, and I had to do it myself, it wasn’t helping but overall I felt I was wasting peoples time. Once I figured out that no one was coming to fix it for me, and once I was out, things only began to improve because I drove that healing. No one else was in the driver’s seat.
Not long after that, I found myself in the middle of a separation I never expected, one that had the potential to undo all the progress I’d made.
I share that not to reroute this piece into personal biography, but because it sits at the heart of what we’re talking about: the quiet, painful contradiction men face when they do speak.
We’re told to open up, to feel more, to share more. But when we do, especially when it’s raw, uncertain, or inconvenient, the response often makes it clear:
It’s only safe to speak if what we say fits someone else’s version of events.
The Risk of Speaking Honestly
There’s a growing narrative that says men need to open up more. And on the surface, it sounds like progress.
But beneath it lies a contradiction few are willing to acknowledge:
For many men, honesty comes with consequences.
When a man admits he’s struggling, even mildly, it can follow him like a shadow. It becomes a question mark over his character, his stability, his fitness as a father, partner, or leader.
We say we want men to talk. But too often, when they do, that honesty is stored away like evidence for later.
Something to be used in an argument.
Something to be quoted in a courtroom.
Something to justify withdrawal, blame, or suspicion.
The message becomes clear:
Speak your truth, and you may lose your children.
Speak your truth, and you risk being seen as unstable.
Speak your truth, and don’t be surprised when it’s turned against you.
A close friend of mine did everything "right."
He noticed his mental health slipping. He was never in crisis, but he recognised the signs, took responsibility, and got help. It worked and things improved for him in a big way.
But a few years later, after his marriage ended, that one short-lived period of seeking help was pulled out like a weapon.
His ex-wife, child services, and the courts used it to argue he was unfit, that his kids weren’t safe with him.
Meanwhile, their mother’s mental health at the time was far worse than his had ever been, and visibly deteriorating. But that wasn’t the focus. The only thing that stuck was that he’d admitted to struggling.
That’s the risk men carry. Not just of being misunderstood, but of being punished for doing the very thing we’re told is brave.
The Emotional Labour of Speaking
There’s this idea that speaking up is easy. That men just need to “get over it” and open up. As if expression is simply about willpower. As if the only thing stopping us is pride.
But for many men, speaking honestly — especially about emotions — is not just a moment of vulnerability. It’s emotional labour.
And that labour doesn’t begin when we speak. It begins much earlier, in the quiet, private effort of figuring out what we even feel. Because the truth is, many men were never taught to identify their emotions. We were taught to move on from them.
To feel something, push it down, and get on with it.
So when something deep and unnameable stirs in us, frustration, loneliness, grief, the first challenge isn’t expressing it. It’s even recognising it. Giving it a name. Sitting with it long enough to understand it.
That alone takes work. Quiet, invisible work.
So when a man says something real;
“I’m lost.”
“I don’t feel respected.”
“I’m afraid I’m not enough.”
that moment might have taken weeks, even years to arrive at.
And if that moment is met with defensiveness, dismissal, or blame?
It doesn’t just sting, it teaches.
It teaches him that the work wasn’t worth it. That emotional truth in a man is only welcome when it’s easy to hear.
So next time? He doesn’t speak.
He shrinks the truth into a joke.
He swallows the feeling and moves on.
And everyone around him calls it emotional unavailability, never realising what made him that way.
When Emotion Threatens Masculinity
There’s an even deeper layer to all of this, one most people don’t see.
It’s not just that men are afraid of how others will respond to their emotions.
It’s that certain emotions feel like they contradict who we believe we’re supposed to be.
Like speaking them out loud might dismantle something essential, our image, our role, our worth.
Because how do you say:
“I feel afraid,”
when you’re the one who’s meant to be solid, dependable, the rock?
How do you admit:
“I feel unwanted,”
when you’ve been told your value comes from your confidence, your certainty, your strength?
Even sadness, which so many say is “safe” to express, becomes a liability when it doesn’t come with a redemption arc.
You’re allowed to be sad if it’s brief. If it’s poetic. If it makes others feel closer to you.
But prolonged sadness? Disorientation? The kind that makes you question yourself or the ground beneath you?
That’s when people look away. That’s when it becomes too much.
And anger?
That’s the most loaded of all.
Not the explosive, reactive kind, but the quiet, honest anger that says:
“I’ve been hurt.”
“I’ve been sidelined.”
“This is not okay.”
That kind of anger is often reframed as aggression. Or worse, as manipulation.
A man who’s angry must be dangerous.
A man who’s hurt must be unstable.
A man who’s vulnerable must be weak.
And slowly, we begin to internalise that message. Not just “they won’t accept me if I say this” but “maybe I’m not really a man if I feel this.”
That’s the real cost.
We start amputating parts of ourselves just to remain acceptable, not just to others, but to ourselves. We keep the emotions that align with the role. And we bury the rest. But the body remembers. The heart remembers. And over time, the parts of us we hide don’t disappear. They just stop trusting us to carry them into the world.
The Feedback Loop of Silence
Most men don’t stop speaking because they want to be mysterious or closed off.
They stop because they’ve been taught, over time, that saying the real thing comes at too high a cost.
So here’s how it goes:
A man feels something he can’t quite name.
He wrestles with it. He mulls it over. He does the internal work to make it understandable, even palatable, to someone else.
He speaks.
It's clumsy. Maybe it’s not perfectly packaged. But it’s real.
And then he’s misunderstood. Or dismissed.
Maybe he’s told he’s being dramatic. Or selfish.
Maybe he’s told, “You’re just trying to make me feel bad.”
So now, on top of the original emotion, he’s carrying shame. He’s on the defensive.
He questions whether he was too much. Whether he should have said anything at all.
Next time, he hesitates. He filters.
He keeps it surface level. Safe.
Eventually, he says nothing at all.
But then, the criticism returns in a different form:
“Why don’t you open up?”
“Why don’t you talk to me anymore?”
“You’re so emotionally distant.”
And round it goes again.
A man tries to break the silence. The silence is punished. So he returns to it, not out of pride, but out of protection.
Because silence, at least, doesn’t get weaponised.
But silence doesn’t shift the dynamic.
Silence might be lonely, but it’s safe.
I Know This Loop Because I’ve Lived It
There have been so many moments where I’ve tried to speak, really speak, and watched it land badly. Not with strangers, but with people I loved. People I trusted. People I wanted to trust me.
I’ve said things like:
“I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”
“I feel completely alone in this.”
“Something’s not right, and I don’t know what to do.”
And more often than not, it didn’t lead to connection.
It led to defensiveness. Or silence. Or a sudden shift where I became the problem, as if expressing my pain meant I was placing blame.
Each time, something inside me got quieter.
Not in a dramatic way. Just in that subtle, internal reordering that says:
“Okay. Noted. Don’t go there again.”
Eventually, I learned to package things differently. To make it easier. Softer.
Or I just swallowed it altogether and focused on getting through the day.
I’ve lived through times when silence felt safer than honesty.
When even trying to name what I felt took more energy than I had.
And I’ve been in the kind of emotional pain that’s hard to explain, not because I didn’t want help, but because I’d learned that asking for it might well make things worse.
So I stopped speaking.
And from the outside, I’m sure it looked like I was holding it together.
But inside, I was just waiting, waiting for enough space to rebuild in a way that didn’t cost me even more.
Where Real Conversations Begin
For a long time, I thought real conversations had to happen with the people closest to me.
Partners. Family. Friends.
And of course, that’s said to be the ideal. But not everyone who says, “Talk to me,” is truly ready to hear what you have to say.
Increasingly often, real conversations begin elsewhere.
In men’s groups.
In journals.
On long walks.
And more recently, in conversations with AI.
That might sound strange, but it’s real.
Because AI doesn’t interrupt. It doesn’t get defensive. It doesn’t try to win the argument or protect its own ego. It just responds. Reflects. Asks.
And in that space, I’ve found something many men never get:
A safe place to think out loud. To hear myself.
To be honest without penalty.
It’s not a replacement for real-world connection. But it can be the rehearsal space.
And sometimes, that’s all you need to begin.
Don’t Invite a Man’s Voice If You’re Not Ready to Hear It
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this:
Men do speak.
Often quietly. Often awkwardly. Always with effort.
But if that honesty is only welcomed when it’s easy or when it fits the story, flatters the listener, or avoids discomfort, then it’s not really welcome at all.
So don’t say you want men to open up if what you really mean is:
“Say what I can handle.”
“Say what doesn’t challenge me.”
“Say what keeps the peace.”
That’s not an invitation to truth.
It’s a request for performance.
And a man who has worked to understand what he feels, who has risked being misunderstood, dismissed, or diminished, deserves better than that.
Because when a man finally speaks, he’s not looking to be rescued.
He’s not trying to control the outcome.
He’s just telling you the truth.
So if you’re going to ask a man to open up, make sure you’re ready.
Not just to hear him, but to stay with him through the places that might challenge you.
That’s where real connection begins.
Not in comfort. In courage.
A Note to the Reader
If any part of this piece resonated with you, whether you’ve lived this yourself, witnessed it in someone you care about, or are just beginning to understand it, I’d love to hear from you.
Men:
Where have you found safe space to speak?
What helped you open up, or what shut you down?
Have you ever used AI or another unexpected space to process what you’re feeling?
If so, what was it like?
Drop a comment. Share a story. Or just say you’re here, because the silence so many of us carry only breaks when we start finding ways, and places, to speak.