Man Up and Shut Up: The Absurdity of Society’s Fear of Male Vulnerability

Society has a simple rule for men: Man up and shut up. Feeling stressed? Lift some weights. Heartbroken? Get over it. Crying? Oh, grow a beard and eat some raw liver. For centuries, men have been expected to suppress their emotions with the efficiency of a malfunctioning pressure cooker—until, of course, they explode. And when they do, the world gasps in shock. “But he seemed so strong!” Maybe, just maybe, forcing half the population to bottle up their emotions like a doomed science experiment isn’t the best idea. This cultural fear of male vulnerability continues to fuel the cycle.

My son turned two recently. A moment of joy, a milestone worth celebrating. But as I watched him stumble around in his toddler confidence, I was yanked back in time—back to the day he was born. The joy of fatherhood was swiftly intercepted by the cruel hands of uncertainty. Shortly after birth, my son developed complications, landing him in an incubator in the ICU for a week.
One week of endless beeping machines, nervous doctors, and my wife’s exhausted, tear-streaked face. And me? I had to be ‘strong.’ Because that’s what men do, right? We square our shoulders, clench our jaws, and assure everyone that things will be fine, even when we’re not sure if we believe it ourselves.
To add to the weight of it all, my brother had lost one of his twin girls just seven months before. The grief was still raw. And here I was, balancing on the tightrope between hope and terror, suffocating under the pressure of being the unwavering pillar of the family.
I had no one to talk to. Not because there was no one around, but because—let’s be honest—who wants to hear a man say, “I’m scared, I’m overwhelmed, I don’t know if I can do this”? Certainly not society, which is built on the ever-glorious foundation of masculinity that dictates: Thou shalt not show weakness.

The Silent Struggle

Men’s emotions are like that ugly sweater your aunt gifted you—stuffed into the deepest corner of your closet, never to see the light of day. From a young age, we are programmed to believe that vulnerability is a liability. We are raised on a steady diet of phrases like “Man up!” “Stop crying like a girl!” and “Be a real man!” which pushes us toward emotional suppression.
And so, we learn. We learn to bury our emotions under layers of stoicism, humour, and an unhealthy obsession with sports and engines. We learn that showing pain is a cardinal sin, second only to enjoying romantic comedies in public.
The paradox? Society punishes us for expressing emotions but also blames us when our unaddressed issues lead to outbursts of anger, substance abuse, or even suicide. When men suppress their emotions, the consequences are often dire. Depression? Oh, we just call it “having a rough day” and drown it in our favourite whiskey. Anxiety? Just “a little stress” that can be solved by a 12-hour workday. And therapy? Let’s not even go there. Therapy is for “weak men.” Or at least that’s what society tells us.
And then, of course, when some men snap under this suffocating silence, the world gasps in surprise. “He was such a strong man! Who would have thought he was struggling?” Well, maybe if someone had asked, and actually meant it, we wouldn’t be attending another funeral of a man who “seemed fine.”
Mental health statistics paint a grim picture. According to the World Health Organization (WHO), men are less likely than women to seek professional help for mental health issues, yet they are more likely to die by suicide. In Kenya, the situation is dire—suicide rates among men are disproportionately high, with cultural and societal expectations silencing them even in their lowest moments.
So, why don’t we talk about male vulnerability? Because it’s uncomfortable. Because it disrupts the illusion of control. Because admitting that men, too, need help would require society to rethink the toxic narratives it has upheld for generations.
Let’s face it: many men are performing masculinity rather than living it. In social settings, men boast about their resilience, dismissing feelings as things only the weak indulge in. They laugh at “simp” culture, mock each other for being emotionally invested in relationships, and suppress any sign of distress to maintain their standing in the male hierarchy. But let’s get real—behind all the bravado, many men are silently drowning.
This performance extends to their interactions with women. Men are expected to be providers, protectors, and emotional anchors—never the ones needing support. Women, in turn, are often conditioned to expect this. A man who cries, who expresses doubt, who admits to needing help, may find himself viewed as less capable, less attractive, less of a man.
But is this really strength? Or is it just well-masked suffering?

The Great Male Debate

Enter the modern prophets of masculinity—Amerix and Andrew Kibe. Both men have built loyal followings, doling out their gospel on what it means to be a ‘real man.’
Amerix, the self-proclaimed ‘masculinity coach,’ encourages men to embrace their primal selves—lift heavy, eat liver, and avoid emotional dependency at all costs. Vulnerability? That’s just another term for weakness. This dismissal ignores the reality that emotional well-being is just as important as financial and physical fitness. Telling men to “become men” without addressing the traumas they carry is like advising someone with a broken leg to “just walk it off.”
Then there’s Andrew Kibe, whose version of masculinity leans more towards rebellion—mocking the modern man for his supposed softness, scorning those who dare to express emotional depth, and reminding us all that women are the root of our problems. (Because nothing screams ‘strong masculinity’ like blaming women for everything, right?) While he highlights legitimate concerns about the shifting dynamics between men and women, his approach often lacks nuance and empathy.
Though their messages resonate with thousands of followers, they inadvertently reinforce a culture where men are discouraged from addressing their emotional struggles, bottling up their pain until it manifests destructively. Both have some valid points (yes, self-discipline is important, and yes, modern relationships can be a battlefield). But here’s the thing—if your brand of masculinity requires you to abandon your emotions, neglect your mental health, and declare war on vulnerability, is it really strength, or just fear in disguise?
The truth is, men don’t need to choose between strength and vulnerability. They need balance. Strength without emotional intelligence is brute force. Vulnerability without resilience is fragility. A real man, a whole man, embodies both.

Breaking the Cycle

So, where does that leave us? Do we continue to subscribe to the doctrine of emotional suppression, passing it down to our sons like a cursed family heirloom? Or do we take the radical step of actually allowing men to be human beings with feelings?
Here’s a wild idea: maybe we create spaces where men can talk—without judgment, without ridicule. Maybe we acknowledge that men, too, need emotional support. Maybe we should stop ridiculing male vulnerability and start seeing it for what it is—a sign of strength.
The world needs men who can express, not just endure. We need fathers who can tell their sons, “It’s okay to cry.” We need husbands who can tell their wives, “I need support, too.” We need a society where a man can say, “I’m struggling,” and not be met with condescension or silence.
So, back to my son. As I look at him now, I hope for a different world for him. A world where he can grow up knowing that being a man doesn’t mean being an emotional robot. A world where he won’t have to suffer in silence just to prove his masculinity.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: strength is not in the suppression of emotion but in the courage to express it. And maybe, just maybe, it’s time we stop teaching our sons to “man up” and start teaching them to just be human.