The Strength in Tears: Working with Men in Therapy

With thanks to our member, Gabriele Pentzek, for this blog.

The other day, a male client said to me that he is afraid of what others might say if they knew he was coming to counselling—and what is more, that sometimes he cries like a child during our sessions.

Him—a big, strong bloke who seems to take everything in his stride, every blow to the gut, no matter how much it hurts. He walks away and smiles, as calm as anything. Like a great oak tree, steady and safe. That is how others know him, how they see him, what they expect of him.

But behind that calm exterior was a man who thought he was weak because he could not come to terms with a painful life experience that almost broke him. He tried to push the intrusive thoughts away, to bury the pain, to carry on as if nothing had changed. When the tears came, he felt ashamed. He called it weakness. I called it vulnerability.

It took him time to understand that no matter our physical appearance or gender, we all feel—joy and sadness, fulfilment and loss. We all experience moments when life brings us to our knees. Expressing those feelings, whatever they may be, is not a failure of strength. It is an act of courage.

So many men grow up hearing the message that showing emotion is wrong, that real men don’t cry. They learn to hide pain behind a calm face, to hold everything inside. In the therapy room, I often see how this silence can weigh heavily—a lifetime of unspoken grief, fear, or loneliness. It takes enormous bravery to sit down, to talk honestly, and to let those long-suppressed emotions surface.

Sometimes, what lies beneath the shame and fear of vulnerability is an old, familiar wound—abandonment. Early experiences of being left, neglected, or made to feel unworthy can leave lasting marks. They teach us that needing others is dangerous, that love can disappear, that emotions push people away. As adults, many men try to cope by becoming self-reliant, by never showing weakness, by standing tall no matter how much they hurt inside.

When those defences finally begin to soften in therapy, what emerges is often a deep sense of relief. The armour that once protected them has also kept them isolated. As one client told me, “I’ve been strong for everyone else for so long—I forgot how to just be me.”

For me, moments like these remind us why therapy matters. It is a space where men can safely challenge what they have been taught about strength and masculinity. A place where they can learn that being vulnerable is not losing control—it is regaining connection with themselves.

If we, as therapists and as a society, can start to see vulnerability as courage, we can help rewrite the story of what it means to be a man. Every tear shed in honesty, every word spoken in truth, is an act of defiance against generations of silence.

To any man who feels ashamed for reaching out, I say this: you are not weak for seeking help. You are strong for daring to be real.

Don’t suffer on your own.
Reach out. Talk to someone.
Your feelings matter. And your courage to express them may just be the beginning of healing.