The reason for male loneliness not enough people are talking about

Borrowing a term from the neurodiversity movement to explain my experience as a man in this society.

“Masking,” my therapist friend said, between gulps of kombucha at the coffee shop we’d met at. She was telling me about a client who’d come to her for help with substance use disorder. “He’s masking all the time, saying he’s fine when he’s actually got all this trauma.”

Inside of me, the pieces fell into place. I’d been gnawing on why my personality had been shifting over the past few years after becoming a therapist. Being around people had become a little easier. I’d felt less shy. Less worn out after socializing. More relaxed around people. More open to spontaneous conversations with neighbors, sort-of friends, acquaintances.

That was it—I’d been “masking.” A lot. Keeping a stoic face. Not reacting too intensely. Saying “I’m good” even if I wasn’t. Going with the flow. Compartmentalizing my emotions between work and home and everywhere else.

It’s all I really knew how to do around people, save for my partner and a few super-close friends. I hadn’t even known I was doing it. I hadn’t known it was a thing. I’d thought I was just “shy,” “introverted,” or—dare I say—“cool, calm, and collected.”

When I got home, I looked it up. Masking is technically something neurodivergent folks tend to have to do to blend in with neurotypical society. Or “normal” society, if you aren’t aware of the terms (though, saying “normal” can lead to neurodivergent folks feeling ashamed). For example, someone on the autism spectrum might force themselves to make eye contact or copy others’ facial expressions. This requires so much effort that it can stress them out, exhaust them, and cause them to lose track of who they really are under all the masking.

Since I think and write about men and masculinity, that’s where my mind goes.

I don’t identify with being neurodivergent and definitely don’t want to minimize the struggle of living in a society designed by and for neurotypical folks. I’ve watched folks who identify as neurodivergent get criticized in therapy groups for talking or processing information differently than other group members. They felt like they were doing something wrong and didn’t belong. It looked like it hurt really, really bad.

I’m just going to borrow the term for a moment to make a point about masculinity. I think men have to do a ton of masking. We feel like we have to pretend like we’re fine. To fist bump and thumbs up and head nod like we’ve got this—pretty much all of the time. To walk it off and man up and stop whining and complaining. To wear a mask, like we’ve got everything figured out. Like we don’t need anyone’s help. Like we’re competent and cool, calm, and collected—always.

Otherwise, we feel like we’re not really a man. We’re no good. We’re soft. We’re weak. We’re—god forbid—like a woman. No one is explicitly saying this to us. It comes from inside. A pressure we put on ourselves to blend in. To not attract attention for being different. A pressure we started putting on ourselves when we were young. We saw movies with men who acted cool and never complained. We saw Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp and Denzel. Men who got the glory, the money, the women. We got made fun of by other boys if we strayed from the script. We got signals from our parents and other adults—sometimes small, sometimes big—that we shouldn’t stray outside the safety of the painted lines of “traditional” masculinity.

So, we put on a mask to stay safe and never got around to taking it off. Unless it’s with our partner, and better if they’re a woman. We can tell her our preferences and worries. We can show a little vulnerability in the privacy of our home. But even there the pressure abides. If we’re too vulnerable and in need of help, she might laugh and call us “needy.” “Aw,” she might say, mockingly, “the little baby needs help.” She might leave us.

I keep writing “we,” when I really mean “I.” That is my experience.

It’s also the experience of many—not all—of my therapy clients who are men. We’re stressed and exhausted from having to wear the mask. The philosopher Olúfẹ́mi O. Táíwò goes as far as saying that “restricted emotional expression [is a] masculine-coded form of emotional labor.” Holding it all in takes a ton of inner work. (Thanks to

Cathy Reisenwitz

for tipping me off to Táíwò’s work on this!)

We’ve also lost a sense of who we truly are. We’ve avoided being “needy” for so long we don’t know how to ask for our needs to be met let alone know what they are.

We’re also lonely. Because connection requires intimacy, and intimacy requires vulnerability. I can’t expect someone to really see and know me and get in close if I’m wearing a mask.

But I’m done with the mask. I’m more tired of hiding behind it than of having to wear it. I’m exasperated from the pressure inside. I’m tired of walking away from conversations feeling worn out, yet also unfulfilled, like something’s always missing. I’m fed up with feeling like people don’t get me. I’ve tasted true, intimate connection with people other than my partner and it’s fucking amazing. I want more of that. I want what every human being deserves.

Again, I’m not saying that being a man is as hard as being neurodivergent. I just love the word “masking.” I think it fits my experience really well. And I’m going to keep peeling off the mask to see what kind of amazing life is possible without it.

I’d love to hear about your relationship to masking—what ways do you hide your true self around others, what’s been frustrating about that, what are you hoping will help you be more true to yourself?

— Jeremy