Unburdening Boys: Redefining Strength and Worth

Sometimes, I think about the boys I taught, all those years. Such earnest faces, such a desperate need to *be* something. To be strong, to be silent, to be…well, to be a boy, according to a set of rules they didn’t even seem to question. And now, reading about this study – it's unsettling, really – confirming what I suspected all along: that tying a man’s worth to an impossible ideal doesn't make him a better man, it makes him a burdened one.

I remember Billy, bless his heart. Always trying to be the toughest in the class. He'd puff out his chest and try to look fierce, but his eyes always gave him away. He was a gentle boy, really, loved to draw birds. He’d shrink away if you praised his art, like it was a weakness. Shame, that’s what it was. Shame because softness wasn’t “allowed.” It breaks your heart, seeing a child trying to fit a mold that doesn't fit.

It’s not about encouraging weakness, mind you. Strength comes in many forms. My Jerry, he’s the strongest man I know. Not because he can lift heavy things – though he certainly could when we were younger – but because he faces the world with kindness and a quiet dignity. He's always been the one who fixes things, both around the house and in the hearts of those who need it. He held Lily for an afternoon last month, just sat there, content, letting her nap against his shoulder. That's strength. That's grace.

The news keeps showing us these pictures of conflict, of division. And I wonder, how much of it stems from this very idea of manhood – this insistence on dominance, this need to be *right* even when you're causing harm. When Kevin and Adrienne brought Lily home, it was beautiful chaos, of course. But I saw Kevin, exhausted, shoulders slumped. He’s a good man, but the pressure to provide, to protect, it weighs on him. He worries constantly, trying to be the perfect father, the perfect husband. And what does that perfection look like? A performance, mostly.

I was driving through Georgia a few weeks back – that drive home from Ponte Vedra was breathtaking, the trees just ablaze with color – and Jerry said, “You seem lighter, Martha.” I told him I thought retirement was going to be good. He smiled that knowing smile of his and said, “You’d have noticed sooner.” And he was right. I’d been carrying around a weight for years, a quiet disapproval of the world's expectations, of the ways we push our boys into boxes.

This study, it simply puts a name to what I’ve always felt. It’s not about blaming men, not at all. It’s about recognizing the damage done when we tell them they can only be a certain way. When we deny them the freedom to be vulnerable, to be compassionate, to simply *be* human. It’s about acknowledging that true strength lies not in suppressing emotions, but in embracing them, in understanding them.

I recall a conversation with my grandson, Eli, just the other day. He was fretful about his first day of school. “What if the other boys tease me?” he asked, looking up at me with those worried eyes. I held his hand and told him, “Eli, be yourself. That’s all that matters. And if anyone tries to make you feel small, remember you are loved, and you are worthy.” Simple words, perhaps, but they hold a profound truth.

It’s a slow shift, this changing of the tide. It won’t happen overnight. But I believe in the goodness of people. I believe that we are capable of creating a world where boys are free to grow into the men they are meant to be – men who are kind, compassionate, and strong in ways that truly matter. A world where a man's worth isn't measured by an arbitrary standard, but by the love he gives and the joy he brings. And that, I think, is a happiness worth striving for.