I’m a man.
Every day is a battle against the weight of expectations. I juggle full-time work and college, pushing myself to the limits. The morning routine is a facade; I wake up at 8 but lie there, wrestling with thoughts until 9. The shower is a mask I wear to face the world.
I’m a man.
My worth is measured by what I can provide, not by my emotions. Tears are forbidden; they’re the mark of weakness. Venting is a luxury I can’t afford; I’m expected to swallow my pain, to grin and bear it because others have it worse.
I’m a man.
I dared to open up, seeking solace in someone who claimed to care. Instead, my vulnerability was met with silence, with a coldness that cut deep. In that moment, I was reduced, deemed lesser for showing what I thought was strength—my honesty.
I’m a man.
Behind the smiles and laughter at work, there’s a constant struggle. The pressure to perform, to excel, to be the provider weighs heavy on my shoulders. I hide my doubts and fears, burying them deep where no one can see.
I’m a man.
Society’s definition of strength is suffocating. Emotions are a battlefield, where showing vulnerability is equated with failure. I carry the weight of unspoken words, the burden of unshed tears, all while maintaining a facade of stoicism.
I’m a man.
The longing for understanding, for empathy, echoes in the silence of unspoken conversations. I yearn for a space where I can unravel the complexities within me without fear of judgment. But the walls of expectation seem insurmountable, trapping me in a cycle of silent suffering.
I’m a man. I’m okay.