By Betzy Brize| Opinion
The First Lesson Boys Learn
Men are taught how to die quietly, not how to ask for help.
From the moment they can walk, boys are told to toughen up- by their parents, their teachers, their friends. Don’t cry. Don’t talk. Don’t feel. Vulnerability is mocked; silence is rewarded. A scraped knee? Shake it off. A broken heart? Drown it in alcohol. A funeral? Stand still. Because “real men” don’t cry, crying is for girls. And if they do? They’re asked, “What are you, a woman?”
So, they learn. They learn that emotions are liabilities. That asking for help is humiliation. That being a man means being unreadable, unreachable, even to yourself.
The Silent Crisis Behind Masculinity
Globally, men are nearly twice as likely to die by suicide as women, according to the World Health Organization. In India, the male suicide rate stands at 14.7 per 100,000, exceeding the global average. In the U.S., men account for 79% of all suicide deaths. In the U.K., men make up 74% of suicides in England and Wales.
These aren’t just statistics. They are proof of how society systematically fails men, emotionally, mentally, institutionally.
Generation after generation, the message is clear: pain makes you weak, and weakness makes you less of a man. We’ve built a culture that rewards male silence and punishes emotional expression.
According to the rules of toxic masculinity, a “real man” is supposed to be aggressive, dominant, and detached. Hit a woman? You’re excused. Show emotion? You’re emasculated. Tenderness is mocked. Sensitivity is ridiculed. And kindness is confused with weakness.
“Strong” has become synonymous with silent. Therapy is seen as feminine. Anger is allowed, even expected. But sadness? Grief? Tenderness? Not so much.
Vulnerability is framed as weakness. Tears are shameful. And asking for help? A betrayal of masculinity.
Look at the names: Sushant Singh Rajput. Robin Williams. Chester Bennington. Avicii.
Men celebrated for their talent, charisma, and apparent success, who died by suicide, often without a public hint of distress.
And then came the shock. The disbelief. “He was doing so well.”
But it shouldn’t be shocking. It should be familiar by now.
Stephen “tWitch” Boss was dancing in his last video. A smiling father of three. Dead by suicide days later.
Nobody saw it coming. That’s the point.
He was smiling in every picture. And screaming in none. That’s how men die.
Because we mistake performance for resilience. And silence for strength.
We praise men who keep it together.
But we never ask what it costs them to do so.
We don’t lose them when they break, we lose them because we never let them bend.
Teenage Boys Are Online and Emotionally Alone
This silence doesn’t begin in adulthood. It begins in adolescence, and increasingly, online.
Teenage boys are growing up in a digital world flooded with influencers telling them to “grind harder,” “man up,” and “dominate.” They're told that hustle is therapy and stoicism is strength. But no one tells them it's okay to cry.
In 2022, a 16-year-old boy in Madhya Pradesh died by suicide after losing a mobile game. His parents thought he was joking when he mentioned wanting to kill himself. He wasn’t.
Another 13-year-old in Tamil Nadu took his life when his phone was confiscated. His suicide note, simply said, “I feel useless.”
These aren't “gaming problems.” They're emotional literacy problems. Boys are taught to link self-worth to performance, in school, in sports, online, but are given no tools to manage failure, shame, or fear.
We hand them smartphones before we hand them empathy. Then we wonder why they break.
If a boy breaks down, we shame him. If a man dies, we mourn him. What kind of bargain is that?
We Talk About Women's Mental Health. Why Not Men’s?
Mental health awareness today is steeped in softness, vulnerability, self-care, emotional openness, traits men are taught to reject. It has become feminized, and in the process, unintentionally exclusionary. Even in therapy rooms, many men feel like outsiders in a space built for someone else’s pain. They’re more likely to suffer in silence, self-medicate, or shut down, not because they want to, but because help has never looked like it was meant for them.
Depression in men often goes undiagnosed, not because it isn’t there, but because it doesn’t always look like sadness. It looks like rage. Addiction. Risk-taking. Numbness. All the signs we’re trained to overlook, until it’s too late.
Let’s be honest: mental health has become a feminist talking point, and that’s a problem. Women are encouraged to open up. There are campaigns, therapy apps, even Instagram pages that speak directly to them. But when was the last time you saw one created for men, not about them?
Men are told to cope. Quietly. Efficiently. Alone.
And when they don’t, when they finally break, we’re shocked.
“He was doing fine.”
“He was happy with his family.”
“He never said a word.”
Exactly. Because we taught him not to.
We applauded him for pretending.
Until he couldn’t pretend anymore.
This Is How Men Cry
He drinks instead of talks, not because he enjoys it, but because it numbs the things he can’t name. He laughs off the pain, brushing it aside like a joke, because admitting it would mean peeling back layers he’s been taught to hide. He punches walls instead of saying “I’m scared,” because rage is the only emotion he’s been permitted to show. He makes offhanded jokes about suicide, hoping
no one asks if he’s serious, because if they did, he wouldn’t know how to answer. He says, “I’m fine,” with bloodshot eyes, trembling hands, and a voice that cracks when no one’s listening.
This is how men cry, not with tears, but with silence, withdrawal, and quiet self-destruction. Their grief comes out in late-night drinking, sleeplessness, irritability, and isolation. You won’t see them weep, not because they don’t want to, but because no one ever gave them permission.
He didn’t cry at his father’s funeral, not because it didn’t break him, but because he didn’t know how to show that kind of pain. He doesn’t say he’s exhausted; he just says he’s busy. He doesn’t say he’s breaking; he reaches for another drink. He doesn’t ask for help, because no one ever showed him that he could.
And while the world keeps applauding his strength, his silence, his composure, his ability to “power through,” it misses the truth: he isn’t strong. He’s suffocating.
But no one sees it. Because men are taught to bleed quietly, to fall apart politely, and to die without making a scene.
And when he finally can’t take it anymore, when he vanishes into the statistics we mourn but never question, people say, “I had no idea.”
They say, “He never seemed the type.”
They call it shocking.
But it’s not shocking.
It’s scripted.
Shame the System — Not the Men
The issue isn’t that men don’t speak.
The issue is that we don’t make it safe for them to be heard.
Where are the mental health services that cater to male experiences, to fathers, students, breadwinners, soldiers, teenagers?
Why do we teach boys to suppress before we teach them to speak?
Why do we celebrate stoicism, but have no plan when it kills?
We can't keep romanticizing strength and shaming softness. We can't keep saying “talk to someone” while laughing at the guy who does. We can't keep crying for dead men while mocking the living ones.
Don’t Raise Awareness. Raise Hell.
Parents are losing their sons.
Wives are losing their husbands.
Children are losing their fathers to depression.
And it’s not just tragic.
It’s preventable.
Because the truth is, it’s not just on them.
It’s on us.
We don’t need another ribbon.
We don’t need another campaign slogan.
We need a cultural reckoning.
Men’s mental health awareness shouldn’t peak in a single month and vanish the next.
This isn’t a theme. It’s a crisis.
Speak up , not just in November.
Speak up every month. Every week. Every damn day.
Until it’s normal. Until it’s safe.
Until men stop dying in silence.
We keep blaming the act, but never the silence that led to it.
He didn’t take his life. We took his voice, years before.
If your idea of strength is silence, don’t be surprised when it kills.
Here’s what needs to change, not tomorrow, now:
The Silent Crisis Behind Masculinity
Globally, men are nearly twice as likely to die by suicide as women, according to the World Health Organization. In India, the male suicide rate stands at 14.7 per 100,000, exceeding the global average. In the U.S., men account for 79% of all suicide deaths. In the U.K., men make up 74% of suicides in England and Wales.
These aren’t just statistics. They are proof of how society systematically fails men, emotionally, mentally, institutionally.
Generation after generation, the message is clear: pain makes you weak, and weakness makes you less of a man. We’ve built a culture that rewards male silence and punishes emotional expression.
According to the rules of toxic masculinity, a “real man” is supposed to be aggressive, dominant, and detached. Hit a woman? You’re excused. Show emotion? You’re emasculated. Tenderness is mocked. Sensitivity is ridiculed. And kindness is confused with weakness.
“Strong” has become synonymous with silent. Therapy is seen as feminine. Anger is allowed, even expected. But sadness? Grief? Tenderness? Not so much.
Vulnerability is framed as weakness. Tears are shameful. And asking for help? A betrayal of masculinity.
Look at the names: Sushant Singh Rajput. Robin Williams. Chester Bennington. Avicii.
Men celebrated for their talent, charisma, and apparent success, who died by suicide, often without a public hint of distress.
And then came the shock. The disbelief. “He was doing so well.”
But it shouldn’t be shocking. It should be familiar by now.
Stephen “tWitch” Boss was dancing in his last video. A smiling father of three. Dead by suicide days later.
Nobody saw it coming. That’s the point.
He was smiling in every picture. And screaming in none. That’s how men die.
Because we mistake performance for resilience. And silence for strength.
We praise men who keep it together.
But we never ask what it costs them to do so.
We don’t lose them when they break, we lose them because we never let them bend.
Teenage Boys Are Online and Emotionally Alone
This silence doesn’t begin in adulthood. It begins in adolescence, and increasingly, online.
Teenage boys are growing up in a digital world flooded with influencers telling them to “grind harder,” “man up,” and “dominate.” They're told that hustle is therapy and stoicism is strength. But no one tells them it's okay to cry.
In 2022, a 16-year-old boy in Madhya Pradesh died by suicide after losing a mobile game. His parents thought he was joking when he mentioned wanting to kill himself. He wasn’t.
Another 13-year-old in Tamil Nadu took his life when his phone was confiscated. His suicide note, simply said, “I feel useless.”
These aren't “gaming problems.” They're emotional literacy problems. Boys are taught to link self-worth to performance, in school, in sports, online, but are given no tools to manage failure, shame, or fear.
We hand them smartphones before we hand them empathy. Then we wonder why they break.
If a boy breaks down, we shame him. If a man dies, we mourn him. What kind of bargain is that?
We Talk About Women's Mental Health. Why Not Men’s?
Mental health awareness today is steeped in softness, vulnerability, self-care, emotional openness, traits men are taught to reject. It has become feminized, and in the process, unintentionally exclusionary. Even in therapy rooms, many men feel like outsiders in a space built for someone else’s pain. They’re more likely to suffer in silence, self-medicate, or shut down, not because they want to, but because help has never looked like it was meant for them.
Depression in men often goes undiagnosed, not because it isn’t there, but because it doesn’t always look like sadness. It looks like rage. Addiction. Risk-taking. Numbness. All the signs we’re trained to overlook, until it’s too late.
Let’s be honest: mental health has become a feminist talking point, and that’s a problem. Women are encouraged to open up. There are campaigns, therapy apps, even Instagram pages that speak directly to them. But when was the last time you saw one created for men, not about them?
Men are told to cope. Quietly. Efficiently. Alone.
And when they don’t, when they finally break, we’re shocked.
“He was doing fine.”
“He was happy with his family.”
“He never said a word.”
Exactly. Because we taught him not to.
We applauded him for pretending.
Until he couldn’t pretend anymore.
This Is How Men Cry
He drinks instead of talks, not because he enjoys it, but because it numbs the things he can’t name. He laughs off the pain, brushing it aside like a joke, because admitting it would mean peeling back layers he’s been taught to hide. He punches walls instead of saying “I’m scared,” because rage is the only emotion he’s been permitted to show. He makes offhanded jokes about suicide, hoping
no one asks if he’s serious, because if they did, he wouldn’t know how to answer. He says, “I’m fine,” with bloodshot eyes, trembling hands, and a voice that cracks when no one’s listening.
This is how men cry, not with tears, but with silence, withdrawal, and quiet self-destruction. Their grief comes out in late-night drinking, sleeplessness, irritability, and isolation. You won’t see them weep, not because they don’t want to, but because no one ever gave them permission.
He didn’t cry at his father’s funeral, not because it didn’t break him, but because he didn’t know how to show that kind of pain. He doesn’t say he’s exhausted; he just says he’s busy. He doesn’t say he’s breaking; he reaches for another drink. He doesn’t ask for help, because no one ever showed him that he could.
And while the world keeps applauding his strength, his silence, his composure, his ability to “power through,” it misses the truth: he isn’t strong. He’s suffocating.
But no one sees it. Because men are taught to bleed quietly, to fall apart politely, and to die without making a scene.
And when he finally can’t take it anymore, when he vanishes into the statistics we mourn but never question, people say, “I had no idea.”
They say, “He never seemed the type.”
They call it shocking.
But it’s not shocking.
It’s scripted.
Shame the System — Not the Men
The issue isn’t that men don’t speak.
The issue is that we don’t make it safe for them to be heard.
Where are the mental health services that cater to male experiences, to fathers, students, breadwinners, soldiers, teenagers?
Why do we teach boys to suppress before we teach them to speak?
Why do we celebrate stoicism, but have no plan when it kills?
We can't keep romanticizing strength and shaming softness. We can't keep saying “talk to someone” while laughing at the guy who does. We can't keep crying for dead men while mocking the living ones.
Don’t Raise Awareness. Raise Hell.
Parents are losing their sons.
Wives are losing their husbands.
Children are losing their fathers to depression.
And it’s not just tragic.
It’s preventable.
Because the truth is, it’s not just on them.
It’s on us.
We don’t need another ribbon.
We don’t need another campaign slogan.
We need a cultural reckoning.
Men’s mental health awareness shouldn’t peak in a single month and vanish the next.
This isn’t a theme. It’s a crisis.
Speak up , not just in November.
Speak up every month. Every week. Every damn day.
Until it’s normal. Until it’s safe.
Until men stop dying in silence.
We keep blaming the act, but never the silence that led to it.
He didn’t take his life. We took his voice, years before.
If your idea of strength is silence, don’t be surprised when it kills.
Here’s what needs to change, not tomorrow, now:
- Teach emotional literacy in schools.
- Fund suicide prevention programs designed for men, not just “including” them.
- Make therapy affordable, accessible, and stigma-free, without branding it weak.
- Train families, teachers, coaches, employers to listen without judgment, and without jokes.
