07/11/2025
I watched the latest John Lewis advert recently — the one with the father and teenage son.
A simple story, really. A son gives his dad a vinyl from his youth — a song that bridges a distance words can’t quite cross. The father, who’s been doing what so many of us men do — providing, fixing, quietly loving — finally lets himself feel something.
As a father, and as a psychotherapist who’s spent 30 years working with men, that moment hit me hard.
Because that silence — that gap between love and language — it’s everywhere.
I sit with men every week who are exhausted from carrying everything they can’t say.
Men who express love through what they do, not what they say.
Men who want to protect and provide but are told those instincts make them dangerous or outdated.
Men who are constantly walking the tightrope between strength and shame.
We’ve created a culture where masculinity is treated with suspicion, where being dependable or protective is rebranded as oppressive. And yet — I see every day that the world still leans on men who show up, hold steady, and take the hits quietly.
That advert ends with the line: “If you can’t find the words, find the gift.”
But maybe what we need is permission — permission for men to not always have the right words, to not have to apologise for how they love.
As men, we’re told to open up. And yes, we need to. But here’s the catch: when we do, we need to be met with understanding, not judgement — because vulnerability isn’t a performance; it’s a risk.
So here’s what I’m asking — not just to men, but to everyone who cares about us:
When was the last time you really saw a man, beyond his role, beyond what he does?
When was the last time you asked him what he’s carrying — not “are you okay?”, but “what’s it like to hold all that?”
Masculinity isn’t the enemy.
Silence is.
And the antidote isn’t to shame men into softness, but to make space for strength and sensitivity to coexist.
This isn’t a seasonal reflection. It’s an everyday conversation.
Because men don’t stop being men when the tinsel comes down — and the weight we carry doesn’t vanish when the music stops.