The Silent Struggle: Why Men Don’t Talk About Mental Health - Week 1 | Silent No More — by Grace in the Grit

 

He’s doing fine.

That’s usually the answer. 

If you ask him how he’s doing — at work, at home, in passing — it comes quickly and effortlessly. Almost practiced. Sometimes accompanied by a small smile. Sometimes with a shrug.

“Fine.”
“Managing.”
“All good.”

And most of the time, we believe him. Because he looks okay. Because he’s showing up. Because the bills are paid, the deadlines are met, the family is taken care of.

Because this is what fine looks like on men.

But if you looked a little closer — not invasively, not suspiciously, just curiously — you might notice the pauses. The longer silences. The way his laughter arrives a beat late. The way he’s present but somehow distant.

Men don’t hide pain dramatically. They disguise it as normalcy.

I’ve often wondered when it begins.

Maybe when a boy falls and hears, “You’re okay, don’t cry.”
Maybe when his fear is dismissed as weakness.
Maybe when his confusion is met with impatience, not conversation.

Slowly, without anyone meaning harm, the message settles in:
Emotions are private. Deal with them yourself.

So he learns to do exactly that.

He becomes excellent at managing life — and terrible at talking about how it feels.

Over the years, that silence matures. It becomes responsible. Reliable. Respectable.

The kind of man everyone leans on.

He is the provider, the fixer, the protector. The one who shows up even when he’s running on empty. The one who doesn’t complain because someone else always has it worse. The one who believes that speaking up is selfish.

And somewhere along the way, support starts feeling like a luxury meant for other people.

He tells himself he doesn’t need it.
He convinces himself he can handle it.
He postpones his feelings the way one postpones a medical check-up — not now, maybe later.

Except “later” rarely arrives.

What men carry is rarely dramatic sadness.

It’s quieter than that.

It’s the weight of always having to be steady.
The constant calculation of what can be said and what must remain unspoken.
The fatigue of pretending everything is under control when it isn’t.

Sometimes, it leaks out as anger.
Sometimes as numbness.
Sometimes as silence that fills entire rooms.

And when someone finally notices and asks, “What’s wrong?” he genuinely doesn’t know where to begin.

Because he was never taught how to narrate his inner world.

There’s a strange irony here.

Men are expected to lead, but not to feel aloud.
To be pillars, but not allowed to lean.
To protect others, while quietly abandoning themselves.

And the world rewards this behaviour.

He is applauded for endurance.
Praised for sacrifice.
Respected for never “breaking down”.

But resilience without release slowly becomes exhaustion.

And exhaustion, when unnamed, turns into isolation.

Here’s the part we don’t talk about enough:

Most men don’t stay silent because they want to.
They stay silent because they don’t know what will happen if they don’t.

They worry about being seen differently.
About being misunderstood.
About burdening the people who already rely on them.

So they keep going. And going. And going.

Until one day, even “fine” feels like a lie they can’t maintain.

This space — Silent No More — exists because that silence deserves interruption.

Not with solutions. Not with judgement. Not with rushed advice.

But with listening. With permission.With the simple, radical idea that men are allowed to be human too.

That vulnerability does not shrink masculinity.
It deepens it.

That speaking up is not weakness.
It is courage that has finally found language.

If you are a man reading this, let me ask you something gently:

When was the last time someone asked how you were —
and actually waited for the real answer?

And if you are someone who loves a man, let me ask you this:

When he says “I’m fine,” have you ever wondered what he chose not to say?

I’ll leave you with this:

What would change if men felt safe enough to talk — not once they break, but while they’re still holding it together?

What would shift in homes, friendships, workplaces, and relationships if silence was no longer the price of being strong?

If this piece stirred something in you — agreement, discomfort, recognition — I’d genuinely like to hear from you.

Not as a comment.
Even as a quiet message is enough.

Because conversations like these don’t need an audience.
They just need a place to begin.

And perhaps, this is it.