Masculinity is taught long before it is understood. A boy barely old enough to form sentences is already being instructed on how a ‘real man’ behaves. Don’t cry. Don’t complain. Don’t show fear. Don’t appear weak. These instructions are not written anywhere, yet they are enforced everywhere.
While this is not a uniquely Pakistani problem, it is more prevelant in Pakistan, especially under current circumstances. Wherever authority flows downward and manhood is measured by stoicism, boys are taught to silence themselves in much the same way. Pakistan is therefore not an exception to this pattern; it is one of its clearer examples. Over time, these messages place boys inside a narrow emotional box. By the time these boys become men, they have learned one thing exceptionally well: how not to talk about what they feel.
From childhood, boys are trained to become future breadwinners and providers who must carry responsibility without showing weakness. Tears are discouraged not because emotion is wrong, but because society wrongly equates emotional expression with an inability to cope. Although this conditioning is often well-intentioned and meant to prepare boys for hardship, it teaches them that strength and feeling cannot exist together.
The effects are visible in emotionally distant fathers, angry young men, broken marriages, substance abuse, quiet depression and a wider mental-health crisis. Instead of only asking why men struggle to communicate or why anger surfaces so easily, society must ask what boys were taught about emotions when they were young. Nowhere is this damage felt more deeply than in the home. Many marriages suffer because men are never taught to express hurt, fear, or disappointment in words. Children also absorb these patterns, learning about love and conflict from a home where emotions remain suppressed. In the end, what society calls strength often quietly damages the family life it claims to protect.
If we accept that this is a systemic problem, then it cannot be solved by telling men, in adulthood, to ‘open up’. A paradigm shift is required, one that involves parents, teachers, mental-health professionals, and society at large, each carrying a share of responsibility.
This reckoning is becoming more urgent as young women increasingly pursue education, careers, independence and personal growth. They now expect respect, emotional maturity, personal space and equality in relationships. Many men, however, struggle to adapt because traditional ideas of ‘mardangi’ often treat flexibility as weakness and partnership as a loss of authority.
The change must begin at home. Parents, especially fathers, shape a boy’s emotional world long before school does. When a child cries and is told to ‘man up’, the message he receives is not courage; it is shame. Parents need to learn that allowing a boy to cry does not weaken him. Fathers who speak openly about stress, disappointment, grief, or fear, without theatrics, without apology, give their sons permission to be human. Mothers, too, play a role when they reinforce the idea that men must always be strong and silent. Schools come next, and here Pakistan has a glaring gap. Our education system rewards obedience, toughness and performance, but rarely emotional literacy. Classrooms should teach conflict resolution, empathy and self-awareness. Teachers need basic training to recognise emotional distress in boys, not just disruptive behaviour, which is often emotional pain in disguise.
Mental-health practitioners, meanwhile, carry a responsibility that goes beyond clinical treatment. In Pakistan, therapy itself is still viewed with suspicion, especially for men. Practitioners must actively work to normalise emotional expression among male clients, adapting their language and approach to cultural realities. Outreach matters. Awareness matters. Therapists, psychologists and psychiatrists need to engage schools, parents, workplaces and religious leaders to reframe mental health as strength maintenance, not damage control.
But this shift cannot stop at individual roles. Society itself must change the reward system. We currently reward emotional suppression in men, promotions for those who never complain, respect for those who endure silently, admiration for those who ‘carry on’ regardless of cost. Imagine the opposite. Imagine a society where emotional intelligence is seen as leadership quality, where communication strengthens marriages, where men seek help early instead of collapsing later.
The positive consequences of such a shift would be profound. Within households, relationships would soften. Husbands would communicate rather than withdraw. Fathers would connect rather than intimidate. Children would grow up emotionally secure rather than anxious and confused. At a societal level, anger would reduce, empathy would increase and conflict whether domestic or communal, would be easier to manage. Communities become calmer when individuals are healthier.
At a national level, emotionally resilient men become better leaders, decision-makers and citizens. When boys are allowed from an early age to express sadness, fear and frustration, they grow into adults who can manage their emotions rather than be controlled by them. This strengthens families, improves productivity and builds a calmer, more humane, and more capable nation.
This is not about making men ‘soft’ but about making them whole. Pakistan does not suffer from a shortage of strong men. It suffers from a shortage of emotionally supported ones. A paradigm shift is overdue.
This is a subject that calls for a serious rethink rather than passing concern. The conversation cannot remain confined to clinics and living rooms; it has to be carried into classrooms, curricula, media and policy if anything is genuinely to change.
And it begins with one simple, radical change in mindset: allowing boys to feel, and teaching them how.
The writer is a former global corporate executive (Unilever, PepsiCo, Yum! Brands), a mental health advocate and a founding board member of Taskeen, a pioneering organisation focused on emotional well-being in Pakistan.
