In a world that praises strength but punishes vulnerability, men are breaking under the weight of their silence. This story unpacks what it truly means to be “man enough.”
By Tamana Ajaz
It was 3:21 a.m. when I first glimpsed the fragile heart of manhood. I was eight years old, traveling from Srinagar to Shopian with my father. The road was empty, the world asleep, the air heavy with grief. We were on our way to my grandfather’s funeral. I remember the moonlight spilling over the winding road, the hum of the car, the soft rhythm of my father’s breath as he drove through the silence. Somewhere along the way, I fell asleep. When I woke up, I was being carried into my grandfather’s house, cradled in my father’s arms.
Those arms — steady, warm, and protective — should have been comforted in return. But that night, they carried not only me, but the weight of his loss, his duty, and his silence. In that moment, even as a child, I sensed something deeply unsettling: my father’s arms held me, but who was holding him?
That question, unspoken yet enduring, plants itself early in many minds. It speaks of a truth buried beneath the myths of masculinity — a truth that says men may be allowed to live, but only within the boundaries of purpose. A man is celebrated if he fulfills his role and discarded if he falters. His worth is often measured in productivity, not humanity. It’s an unspoken contract that grants immense responsibility but strips away the right to emotional vulnerability.
We are, in many ways, living inside a quiet dystopia. The global statistics on male suicide echo this reality — a deafening silence disguised as strength. Every year, nearly three out of four suicides are men. These are not just numbers; they are cries for help muffled beneath the weight of expectation. The paradox is cruel: men are told that their lives must have meaning, yet they are haunted by the fear of never being enough.
This insecurity follows them everywhere — in boardrooms, classrooms, bedrooms, and within the walls of their own minds. It lurks behind the polite smiles, the stoic postures, and the words “I’m fine.” For many, life becomes a performance of competence, an endless act of holding it together.
But why don’t they speak? Why don’t they share the storms that rage inside? The answer lies in the conditioning that begins in childhood — the whispered injunctions, the mocking laughter, the cultural cues that teach boys that tears are weakness and pain is shameful. Society only accepts them when they are “functional,” when they serve a purpose. To show emotion is to risk being stripped of the very identity they are told to embody.
To be a man, it seems, is to be silently strong until the silence destroys you.
Generations have lived and died under this unrelenting pressure — to provide, to perform, to endure. This is not resilience; it is repression. It is the quiet abuse of the soul that teaches men to lock their feelings away, to never admit that something hurts. When trauma strikes, society expects them to be survivors, not victims. The image of victimhood itself has been gendered, leaving men stranded in a world where their pain is invisible.
A man’s value, we are told, is measured in titles — doctor, engineer, entrepreneur. Those who fail to meet these markers are branded as failures. This narrow definition of worth traps countless men in cycles of anxiety and self-doubt. The more they try to meet expectations, the further they drift from their own emotions. Their inner worlds collapse quietly, like old houses with no one left to repair them.
This is the tragedy we refuse to name: men who suffer in silence, who bury their pain so deep that it consumes them. Their emotional imprisonment becomes a self-made cage — one crafted not from weakness, but from the cruel architecture of expectation.
Our society prides itself on progress and equality, yet when it comes to gender, the scales still tilt unevenly. We talk about empowering women — a mission both noble and necessary — but in doing so, we often forget that true equality requires compassion for all. Men are still expected to be unbreakable pillars, to carry the emotional and economic burdens of others while denying their own fragility.
This is not about comparison; it is about recognition. Men, too, are human. They feel loss, fear, and grief. They long to be understood, to be seen not for their utility but for their humanity. Yet decades of suppression cannot be undone overnight. It takes time — and courage — for a man to unlearn the lesson that to cry is to fail.
Even our legal and social systems reflect this imbalance. Designed to correct the injustices of a patriarchal past, they now sometimes swing too far, creating new forms of bias that ignore the vulnerabilities of men. It is a distortion born of good intentions — a pendulum that has overshot balance.
In this reality, one in six men experiences childhood sexual abuse. Men are statistically more exposed to violence, more likely to die by suicide, and less likely to seek help for mental health issues. Yet their pain remains largely invisible — dismissed, mocked, or disbelieved. The world has made their suffering taboo, their voices inaudible.
This is not a competition of who suffers more. It is a call for compassion.
We cannot heal by ranking pain. We can only heal by recognizing it — all of it. Men are not monolithic beings of iron and resolve; they are human, capable of tenderness, fear, and tears. They deserve to be heard not as providers or protectors, but as people.
To deny their humanity is to weaken our own.
Perhaps the time has come to dismantle the myths we have built around masculinity — to strip away the armor and see the person underneath. The one who is tired, who is scared, who still carries the child within him that was told never to cry.
Because the truth is simple: no man should have to prove that he is “enough” to be worthy of love, empathy, or peace.
Until we can hold men the way they have held the world — with compassion, not condition — we will remain a society half-awake, mistaking silence for strength. It’s time to see the man behind the mask, not as an emblem of endurance, but as a beating heart longing to be understood.
That, perhaps, is what being “enough” really means.
The views expressed in this article are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions or views of this Magazine.
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