real men cry too

He turned the street corner, wind slicing across his cheekbones. The thought that came next seemed almost impolite, but it pushed past him anyway.

Reminding him of years spent, struggling to maintain his lane, ticking societal boxes: work, marriage, a hefty mortgage, tick.

He pulled his collar higher against the morning wind, an old habit of protection. Twenty years behind a screen and nothing to show for it but a folded redundancy letter in his pocket, paper creased and scarred as his skin.

The man he once imagined stood beside his father’s expectations — a ghost in an old photograph curled and faded at the edges. He knew all too well you can’t wrestle with a ghost; you have to exorcise or learn to live with them.

He hadn’t told Beth, he was contemplating whether he might tonight.

She’d had another bad week — with impossible workloads, parents complaining, more assessments, and targets that seemed to wax and wane as regularly as the…

Every evening, she came home exhausted, as he did too. They talked as if their lives were transactions in half sentences: who’s cooking, who’s paying this bill, who’s walking Bella.

Intimacy was so far removed it was no longer in the kitchen, let alone on the table, and yet a part of him wanted to talk; he still loved her, but it was far safer to hold the ache in his chest than let it roam free.

Besides, Paul knew from experience too much talk about feelings made those around you shift in their seats and find reasons to leave the room.

Witnessing his father, older brother and most of the male figures in his life, subscribe to the same unspoken message, “Man Up,” reinforced his belief that men and strong Black men, for that matter, don’t whine about emotions.

Instead, they handle business, take care of their responsibilities and get things done. Why open your chest and hand someone a knife to use your words against you?

No, far better to keep those soft things packed down under your skin like insulation and deal with the household bills. Bills that never seemed to end, dropping through the letterbox like hot coals, adding to the heat of a room too small.

But as much as Paul tried to outthink the flood rising within him, it was too late. A single tear then another steadily betrayed him, and his throat thickened as he tried to swallow his sorrow before anyone could see.

He had done everything right, and it still felt like it wasn’t enough. Men don’t cry like this, or at least not men his age, he thought.

He stopped, bent over, pretending to adjust Bella’s collar. A car door slammed somewhere behind him; the hollow thud disturbed his thoughts for a second.

He wanted to stop feeling altogether — the guilt, exhaustion, the calcification of expectations that were like a shell, protective once, but now a hardened prison cell.

Bella suddenly lurched forward, jerking the lead in his hand, pulling his thoughts off balance.

As he looked up, he could see what at first looked like a ginger blur stretched across a garden wall, tail curled, eyes bright green like bottled glass in sunlight.

Staring back at him, a cat, unapologetic, unbothered and free.

Bella, now on her hind legs, suspended by her collar, body pointed, strained to exert control and assert her dominance.

Paul bellowed, “Leave it!” Bella tugged harder, and the cat didn’t move. Just sat there and looked at them both.

Once again, Paul held the lead back as he looked into the cat’s eyes; it burned like the cat was mocking him, maybe calling him out, saying, “I see you.”

Instinctively, Paul half-laughed and, for a moment, considered he had lost it, talking to cats now! Still, he recognised something intense he couldn’t name.

Bella tugged the lead again, pulling them forward. The cat jumped off the wall out of view.

Regaining the rhythm of his walk, Paul slipped his hand in his coat pocket and felt for his phone. The words ask for help floated across the surface of his mind like oil on water.

His thumb hovered over his phone screen. Maybe this time, he will.

Thank you for reading.

Author's note: Too often, we hear stories of men carrying silent battles, stress, disconnection and the fear of asking for help. It's easy to mistake endurance for strength, especially in a world where social conditioning leaves little room for emotional honesty.

If this story resonates with you or reminds you of someone who might need it, share it with them. Let them know: it’s okay — real men cry too.

If you would like to chat to Jesse please reach out to him via his Collective page.