Okay, so here’s the thing, I’ve been thinking (dangerous, I know). And honestly? Men are out here carrying stuff they don’t even have words for. Like… emotional stuff. Heavy stuff. Stuff their daddies never talked about and their boys don’t ask about.
And I’m not saying every guy is walking around like a lost little boy inside a grown man’s body but okay, maybe a few are. And who could blame them?
The world has given men, especially Black men, the most suffocating script to read from:
Be strong. Don’t cry. Provide. Don’t complain. Protect. Don’t fall apart.
Sir. When do you breathe?
It’s no wonder some men are out here grinding themselves into dust trying to feel enough. And when they finally try to heal, get soft, go to therapy, or pick up a paintbrush or a yoga mat or heaven forbid, a journal, suddenly they’re “not real men”? Please.
You mean to tell me a man can't light a candle, cry to Frank Ocean, and still fix the sink? Lies.
What breaks my heart is how we often only value men when they’re performing. As if their worth lives in how many babies they can make, bills they can pay, or crises they can clean up. That’s not love—that’s a transaction.
But I get it. I really do. Because behind all that pressure is just a human trying to be seen. Trying to be safe.
So yeah, I might be a little emotional today (don’t judge me, I cried at a dog food commercial earlier), but I just want to say this:
Men deserve softness too.
They deserve spaces where they don’t have to compete or perform or pretend.
They deserve to rest. To feel. To grow. To be.
Let’s hold that truth for them until they feel safe enough to hold it for themselves.
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