What’s hard about being a man?
True to this social experiment by writer Liz Plank , I could not answer that question when I first heard it. Like others, I haven’t even thought about it.
After a few days of deliberation, I realized the reason for having not thought about it and the answer to the question are related: because of the burdensome expectation that I should just know what it means to be a man, complaining about it, or admitting to my struggles in doing it right, is inherently unmanly and to be avoided.
To me, the hardest thing about being a man is the pressure I feel, from within and from others, to not just be a good man, but to know how to do that, and to figure it out on my own.
I don’t mean to imply I haven’t had male role models. Just the opposite: I’ve been extremely lucky to have had men in my life I could use as examples of the kind of person I want to be. From my family (my father, grandfather and brother) to camp counselors and teachers and even friends, I haven’t lacked male figures who helped me (in various ways) figure it out.
But when I reached adulthood, which I define as the time I finished college, it felt as if I was leaving whatever cocoons had been preordained for me and was left to figure it out for myself.
This is certainly not limited to men. All of us go through the process of trying to determine how we will lead our lives, how we will express our values, how we will put food on the table, who we will surround ourselves with, how we will spend our time.
And make no mistake: in our society, expectations of who we should be, what we should own, what we should look like, how much money we should make, what we should accomplish, who we should be with, all create a weight that can bury our self-confidence and perceptions of ourselves. In many ways societal pressure and expectations are harder on women than men.
I recognize that as a man I’m unfairly granted leeway to act and behave and navigate through the world in ways women aren’t. That’s an important by-product of the #MeToo movement — understanding (and hopefully improving) the unequal distribution in safety, opportunity and flexibility that men are privileged to and women endure.
But what I’m getting at here is what I think poses a challenge to men more than women. I know it’s been a struggle for me: the closed-off way we lead our lives, the expectation that we should be able to do everything ourselves, masters of all, self-reliant, strong, not needing things from others, and able to do so while being confident, dominant, powerful, all in ways that measure higher or better than others.
I’m here to say it clearly: I can’t do all that, certainly not by myself.
The weight is too much. And the cracks from that weight have caused depression, alcohol abuse, lack of self-esteem, and, ironically, further social isolation.
Even writing this feels awkward…because, deep down, I admit, I still cling to old-fashioned and (yes, I’m going to use this word) toxic definitions of masculinity.
It’s not manly to express vulnerability. It feels weak to admit to weakness, and to struggle, and to pain. I feel as if I’m complaining and calling attention to myself, or at least the wrong kind of attention, and that too makes me feel awkward and uncomfortable.
It seems strange and twisted, to be honest, but I guess the hardest part about being a man is admitting in any way that it’s hard at all.
. . .
I remember as a kid marveling at my Dad. He seemed to know how to do everything. Checking the air in his tires, grilling steaks, reading maps (yeah, no portable GPS back then), mowing the lawn, using all kinds of tools, also being an attorney and throwing a baseball.
I’ve had women say to me, while doing any number of things, from cooking to cleaning to household chores and even having sex…”You’re a grown man, you should know how to do” whatever it was.
Buried under shame and embarrassment, I’d ask myself, “Yeah, how come I’m not better at this? How come I don’t know, instinctively, how to turn on this lawn mower, how to last longer in bed, how to perfectly cook chicken?”
Either I was never taught, or I didn’t have as much practice, or some combination of both. I had terrible allergies and asthma as a kid. As such, I was forbidden from mowing the lawn (because doing so could land me in the hospital) and I never learned how to start a lawn mower.
What kind of man doesn’t know how to start a lawn mower?
. . .
A few months ago I had an extraordinarily difficult day. I somehow managed through it, went to the gym to burn off steam, then went to the grocery store. My girlfriend, knowing I’d had a tough day, asked if I wanted to come over.
I was feeling ashamed, my morale down to my knees. What would have really helped was being around someone who loves me.
Instead, I cooked and ate by myself and went to bed early.
As much as I write about being a better man and improving the status quo of masculinity, as much as I have improved in being a better verbal communicator, as much therapy as I have sought, I couldn’t bear expose my weakness in that moment. I sought refuge in solitude.
Real men aren’t supposed to feel like I was feeling, I thought. Strong men don’t have days like that. The failure represented in that day didn’t just exist on its own — it made me question my worth and value as a man, as a person.
I had fallen short of the credo, and it made feel worthless. And I couldn’t bear to open up and feel that way around another person, even her.
So too with all failures.
They aren’t just a bad day at the office. Each strikeout is a judgment on my value and worth as a man.
Daily life is full of setbacks and frustrations. Of course you learn to cope with those.
Or do we?
Plank, (whose new book For the Love of Men is on my wish list) wrote this in a recent article for the Washington Post:
“Research on 2,431 young adults 18 to 19 years old by Daniel Coleman of Fordham University found that men who identified with rigid beliefs — that men must provide at any cost, be invulnerable or be self-sufficient — were more likely to have suicidal thoughts and exhibit signs of depression. Coleman concludes that idealizing “high traditional masculinity” is a “risk factor,” especially for men who aren’t able to fulfill that ideal because of life circumstances such as illness, disability or the loss of a job. A more flexible understanding of masculinity wouldn’t prevent men from becoming unemployed, but it could help them cope with it better.”
The rigid beliefs as projections of manhood stuck with me: to provide, and that your value as a provider is measured; to be strong (or, as in the quote above, invulnerable) at all times; and to be self-sufficient.
As values, perhaps, those principles or beliefs could stand as meaningful and purposeful goals.
As a measuring stick of self- and social worth, they are a disaster.
. . .
When I was laid off earlier in my career (as part of the dot-com implosion in 2001), I didn’t sweat it. Just the opposite: at the time it was almost a badge of honor. But as my job search extended from days to weeks to months, that badge turned into one of shame.
It wasn’t just the financial stress of feeding myself and paying rent. It was instead the plummeting sense of self-worth I experienced from repeated rejections. Doesn’t anyone want me? Do I offer any value? What am I good for if I can’t find a job?
This stress impacted not just my self-esteem, but my entire identity. What kind of man was I if I couldn’t find a job and provide for myself, much less others?
I wrote about the difficulty men can have when their partner out-earns them, and how, in today’s world, because this is so common, men are going to have to learn that financial contributions to the household no longer (if they ever did) can constitute the total value men bring to the household.
When I think about the stress I felt during my time of unemployment, it makes me sympathetic to other men, both young and old, who are unemployed and under-employed. It goes beyond financial and practical considerations. Instead, it strikes at the core of who we are as men. If we can’t provide, the story goes, we have no value.
Plank’s article details how in times of economic trouble, suicide rates among men increase, and not just in the United States. Clearly, men need to find ways outside of work and money to feel important, to feel as if we are contributing, to feel needed, to feel seen and interwoven into something greater than ourselves.
Ah. But therein lies the greatest irony. Remember the three pillars Plank outlines of rigid (i.e. toxic) masculinity: the need to provide, to be invulnerable, to be self-sufficient?.
In a situation when men aren’t providing (either through being unemployed or out-earned) they don’t just miss out on the first pillar, but the third as well, because by not providing at all or enough, they are no longer self-sufficient. They are dependent on someone else. This can create feelings of shame and guilt and worthlessness, all which can’t be properly expressed, felt or communicated about because of the pillar of being invulnerable, i.e. strong and tough.
It doesn’t take a spouse or family for a man to feel these things. Even while living alone, we find being unable to be self-sufficient a vicious cycle. When unemployed or under-employed we don’t just feel the anxiety of financial pressures. It’s a societal condemnation of our worth as a person. And to express that anxiety is to admit, to ourselves or others, weakness. To admit to our inability to do…whatever it takes to be a man.
That pressure is soul-killing, and for far too many men, physically dangerous too, through either suicides or other harmful behaviors like smoking, alcoholism, addiction and total lack of self-care.
We live in a culture that is, superficially, at least, accepting of failure. There are clichés and memes of how failure is nothing more than a stepping stone to success. That if one doesn’t fail, one isn’t really trying. That failure is a sign of bravery.
Yet it takes a lot to overcome failure. We are almost psychologically wired to avoid the uneasy feelings failure and being wrong elicit form us.
I struggle with failure a lot. Even the smallest of mistakes can set me off. A typo in an e-mail. Making the wrong turn while driving. Botching a recipe. I impose a ridiculous level of, if not perfection, then at least an error-free existence that I know I can never live up to, and that I can never attain.
It’s one thing to experience by myself. Around and with other people is a whole other level. Let’s talk frankly here.
Physical failures can strike right to the core of my perception of myself as a man. Any kind of physical weakness isn’t just a struggle on its own, but is also compounded by exacerbating my sense of weakness. I still suffer from allergies — and often have to stay indoors to avoid the worst of it.
If I could accept that as it is, I could deal with it. Instead, I make the problem worse by letting it define me as a man. What kind of man am I if I can’t even go outside?
And then there are the sexual failures. Whatever you’re thinking that means, I’ve probably endured it. The embarrassment and shame are bad enough, but it gets worse, because if you can’t do the one thing men are biologically engineered to do, then what kind of man are you?
Sexual partners can choose to be helpful and sensitive in those situations, but ultimately, (and perhaps, ironically, considering how much pressure exists for men to solve problems on their own) it’s up to me to feel comfortable in my own skin and to come to terms with my fears, nervousness and anxiety.
And man is that easier said than done.
. . .
I don’t write this to make excuses for myself — and I don’t intend to say, ultimately, that, guess what…life is hard sometimes.
Nor am I shirking responsibility for taking sole ownership of my life. I want that, am glad I have it, and am working all the time at making myself better and ensuring I’m living a full, meaningful, enjoyable life. I don’t want to delegate that responsibility to anyone.
And I’ve written, many times, about how men need to take this kind of ownership and view themselves as being in charge of their own careers and lives.
But the challenge comes from doing all of these things under the expectation that you’ll be successful, that you can handle the ups and downs on your own, and that you can attain a certain level of success despite all of the systems working against individuals in our corporate-driven society.
There is success, and there is failure. There are winners, and there are losers.
In this country, the stigma and consequences of being on the wrong side of that equation are debilitating.
And if you are on the wrong side, it can seem there is nowhere to turn.
. . .
I don’t know where the line exists between adult ownership and responsibility, of healthy self-reliance and determination on the one hand, and then on the other a stoicism and self-dependence that is emotionally and psychologically destructive.
Economic and political systems are bigger than one person, but they are felt by individuals. I wish for large things, like a better safety net for the unemployed, and the normalization of the gender pay gap. I wish the perceptions of what we define as masculine behavior could change.
So what am I saying? Do I wish life wasn’t as hard sometimes? Yeah, I do. Do I expect that to change anytime soon? No. Though I’m working on it, trying to do my share.
In the meantime, I will try to reach out and create a community for myself, so that I won’t feel as if I’m going through it alone. I will try to think about things in different ways, so that I am easier on myself, have greater confidence, believe in myself, and not be so hard on myself when things go awry.
The picture above, the lone cowboy, is lauded, treasured, mythic. But that cowboy is alone. And probably struggling in all the ways so many men do.
I wonder what he thinks is hard about being a man. I wonder if he’s ever been asked, or ever thought about it.
I wonder what he and I might have in common, whether we could help each other, if even in a small way.
We’ll never know.
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This post was previously published on P.S. I Love You and is republished here with permission from the author.
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