With thanks to our member, Colin Preece, for this article.
In a world that rarely stops talking, silence can feel uncomfortable. In therapy, it can feel even more so. When a client falls quiet, it’s easy to assume they’re resisting, disengaged, or unsure what to say next. But over the years, I’ve come to see silence—especially in therapy with men—as something far more meaningful.
Silence isn’t empty. It’s full of information, emotion, and potential. For many men, silence is a language all its own.
Masculinity and the Sound of Quiet
Many men grow up learning that emotions are risky territory. From an early age, they’re told—often without words—that strength means self-control, independence, and composure. Expressing sadness, fear, or tenderness can feel like a betrayal of that code.
Research by Addis and Mahalik (2003) found that traditional masculine norms are a major barrier to help-seeking, shaping not only whether men come to therapy but how they behave once they’re there. Silence often becomes a shield—a way of staying safe in a space that demands emotional exposure.
Ron Levant’s (2011) “normative male alexithymia hypothesis” adds another layer. Many men, he argues, simply haven’t developed the emotional language to articulate their inner worlds. When words don’t exist—or feel forbidden—silence becomes the only available form of communication.
So, when a man falls quiet in the therapy room, it may not mean he’s avoiding something. It may mean he’s trying to find something—something he’s never been encouraged to name.
A Moment of Stillness
I remember working with a client I’ll call David. He came to therapy describing “low mood” and “burnout.” In our first session, he was polite, structured, and factual. But when I asked him how all this felt, he went completely silent. For nearly two minutes, the room was still.
My instinct, early in my career, would have been to jump in—to ask another question or offer reassurance. But something told me to wait.
After what felt like an age, David finally said quietly, “That’s the bit I can’t do.”
That was the start of the real work. His silence wasn’t avoidance; it was communication. It was his way of saying, I want to connect, but I don’t know how. By staying present rather than filling the space, I gave him permission to stay with that struggle.
Wampold (2015) reminds us that the quality of the therapeutic relationship predicts outcomes far more than any particular method or model. Holding silence without judgement demonstrates attunement and trustworthiness. It says: You don’t have to perform here. I can handle what you’re carrying—even the parts you can’t yet put into words.
Holding, Not Filling
Working with silence is one of the hardest—and most transformative—skills a therapist can develop. It asks us to sit with our own uncertainty and resist the pull to “fix.”
Chris Corrie (2009) describes therapist presence as the ability to be fully with a client without needing to do anything. In silence, that presence becomes palpable. When a therapist stays calm and grounded, the room starts to feel safe enough for real introspection to happen.
So I pay attention to my own body. I slow my breathing. I soften my gaze. I notice whether I’m leaning forward in anticipation or sitting back in patience. These tiny adjustments communicate volumes. Silence becomes shared space, not empty air.
What Silence Means
Not all silences mean the same thing. For some men, especially those from working-class or military backgrounds, silence can signify respect or composure. For others, it can reflect mistrust of authority, fear of judgement, or cultural norms around privacy.
A Black British client once told me, “Where I’m from, you don’t air your business with strangers.” His silence wasn’t resistance—it was cultural wisdom. My job was to understand that silence, not to interpret it through my own assumptions.
Research on intersectionality and men’s mental health (Mahalik et al., 2022) reminds us that there is no single way to “be a man.” Masculinity intersects with race, class, sexuality, and culture, shaping what silence represents. A culturally competent therapist listens not only to what is silent, but to why it might be.
When Silence Becomes Speech
When silence is respected rather than feared, it often becomes the bridge to language. Once a man feels he won’t be pushed, pitied, or pathologised, words start to appear naturally.
Some of the most powerful breakthroughs I’ve witnessed have come after long, quiet stretches. A client might take a deep breath and finally say, “I’ve never told anyone this before…” Those moments don’t come from clever questions—they come from patience.
A 2020 study by Seidler and colleagues found that men who felt “rushed to talk” in therapy were more likely to drop out. Those whose therapists allowed time and silence reported feeling respected and in control. The researchers concluded that patience supports men’s autonomy, countering the fear that therapy will strip them of agency.
Holding silence, then, isn’t passive. It’s active faith in a client’s capacity to find his own words, in his own time.
Listening with the Third Ear
Carl Rogers once wrote that true empathy means entering the other’s world “as if it were your own, without losing the ‘as if’ quality.” In silence, that kind of listening becomes even more important.
When words stop, I tune into other forms of communication—breath, posture, micro-expressions, subtle shifts in energy. Sometimes I’ll name what I notice: “It’s gone very quiet—what’s that like for you right now?” More often, I’ll simply stay with it, trusting that silence itself is doing the work.
One client, a construction worker in his fifties, once said after a long pause, “That’s the first time in years I’ve just sat still without feeling like I should be doing something.” That moment of stillness was therapy. It gave him permission to rest, to stop striving. For men raised to measure worth by productivity, that can be revolutionary.
What Silence Teaches the Therapist
Silence also teaches us about ourselves—about our own relationship with masculinity, vulnerability, and presence.
As a male therapist, I’ve sometimes felt that old internal pressure to be competent, empathic, and composed all at once. Sitting in silence can feel like failure, as if I’m not “doing enough.” But over time, I’ve realised that silence is where I learn the most. It reminds me that my role isn’t to have the answers but to be with whatever arises.
In that way, silence reshapes my understanding of masculinity too. It asks me to embody patience, humility, and openness—qualities our culture doesn’t always celebrate in men, but which make all the difference in the therapy room.
Stillness as Healing
In a society that tells men to “man up,” keep moving, and stay in control, silence can be radical. It invites stillness, introspection, and vulnerability—the very qualities many men have been told to avoid.
When we stop fearing silence in the therapy room, we create a space where men can start hearing themselves for the first time.
Silence isn’t the absence of communication. It’s the birthplace of it. And sometimes, the quietest moments in therapy are the ones that echo the loudest long after the session ends.
References
Addis, M. E., & Mahalik, J. R. (2003). Men, masculinity, and the contexts of help seeking. American Psychologist, 58(1), 5–14.
Corrie, C. (2009). Therapist presence: Being and doing in the therapeutic encounter. Therapy Today, 20(5), 18–21.
Levant, R. F. (2011).Research in the psychology of men and masculinity using the gender role strain paradigm as a framework. American Psychologist, 66(8), 765–776.
Mahalik, J. R., et al. (2022). Intersectionality and men’s mental health: Expanding our understanding of masculinities. Psychology of Men & Masculinities, 23(1), 1–14.
Seidler, Z. E., et al. (2020). Men’s dropout from mental health services: Results from a national survey of Australian men. Social Psychiatry and Psychiatric Epidemiology, 55(8), 1021–1030.
Wampold, B. E. (2015). How important are the common factors in psychotherapy? An update. World Psychiatry, 14(3), 270–277.
Author Bio
Colin Preece is a counsellor, chartered psychologist and supervisor. He works in a wide range of areas his approach integrates humanistic and relational perspectives with a focus on presence, authenticity, and cultural awareness.
