The Cost of Looking Strong All the Time

By Derek Colvin, LPC-S, CGT - The Giant Therapist

Real. Raw. Unfiltered Reflections on Masculinity, Fear, and the Lies Men Learn About Strength.

The 2 A.M. Questions

There’s a reason 2 a.m. is when the bravado slips. The house finally goes quiet, and the questions we avoid in daylight crawl out of the dark. I don’t think men are afraid of therapy so much as we’re afraid of the moment the mask comes off and someone sees what’s underneath: the hurt we never named, the anger standing guard over grief, the shame we learned to outrun by working harder, lifting heavier, laughing louder. We call therapy “soft” because it’s easier than admitting we don’t know how to be held without feeling like we’re losing something we were taught to protect - control, image, position. But what if the thing we’re protecting isn’t strength at all? What if it’s just a costume that fit in our twenties and feels like a straitjacket now?

The Myth We Inherited

Most of us inherited a script where men didn’t talk about pain; they performed around it. If emotion showed up, it had to be useful - turn it into a joke, a lesson, or a reason to grind. The rest got buried. We didn’t watch men open doors to their inner life; we watched them white-knuckle the hinges shut. That kind of silence can look noble from a distance. Up close, it’s expensive. You pay for it in distance from your kids, in the way your partner stops bringing you the delicate things, in how your friendships flatten into stats and stories instead of truth. It’s lonely to be the hero of a movie where no one is allowed to touch you.

The Fear of Being Seen

When men say, “Therapy doesn’t work,” I hear something different: “I don’t trust that it’s safe to be seen.” That mistrust isn’t irrational; it’s learned. If the first time you cried you were mocked, or the first time you asked for help you were made to feel small, your nervous system took notes. Vulnerability started to feel like stepping into a room where the floor might disappear. So you outsource your heart to anger or sarcasm and keep your hands busy. You call that “staying strong,” but really you’re just staying armored. And armor is great on a battlefield. It’s terrible in a living room.

What the Silence Costs

I get why many of us avoid the work: honesty rearranges things. You don’t get to keep the same story about who you are and how you love once you tell the truth about what shaped you. You discover which parts of you grew around a wound. You notice how your silence trained the people you love to stop knocking. You realize the tantrum wasn’t rage; it was fear. You hear yourself apologize without the word “but” and feel the ground shift. That’s the real dread - not that therapy will make you soft, but that softness will make you change, and change will require you to live differently tomorrow morning.

The Power in Softness

Here’s the harder truth: “strong without soft” isn’t strength; it’s strain. Real strength isn’t a permanent flex; it’s capacity. Capacity to carry weight without crushing the people under you. Capacity to feel anger without weaponizing it. Capacity to let grief move through and not calcify into bitterness. Capacity to say, “I need help with this part,” without collapsing into shame. Softness, the willingness to be affected, is what keeps strength from hardening into control. When a man can be moved, he can be moved toward the people he loves.

The Conversations That Heal

I think about the conversations we put off because we’re sure they’ll wreck us: the call to a father who wasn’t there, the apology to a daughter who absorbed shrapnel that wasn’t hers, the confession to a spouse that you’ve been performing closeness instead of practicing it. We build those moments into monsters, and the building takes more from us than the moment ever will. The truth usually hurts less than the rehearsal. And on the other side of it, there’s air. Maybe not resolution, not yet, but air. Enough to stop bracing and start breathing.

Protecting What’s Sacred

Protection has a place, but it can’t be your whole personality. If your circle doesn’t know how to hold your truth, widen your circle. Guard your relationship from spectators who want gossip more than growth, absolutely, but don’t confuse secrecy with safety. Let a few trustworthy people all the way in. The relationship you’re protecting - your marriage, your friendship, your bond with your kids - needs witnesses who will fight for you to stay human, not just impressive.

When Strength Starts to Heal

If you’re a man stuck between the life you built and the life you actually want, let me offer a different definition: strength is the courage to be seen before you’ve perfected the scene. It’s showing up to therapy not to be fixed, but to be found, and to learn how to find yourself on the days you get lost. It’s telling your son, “You can be angry, but you can’t be cruel.” It’s telling your wife, “I’m scared, and I’m here.” It’s calling your father and speaking the truth without surrendering your dignity. None of that is soft. All of it is brave. At 2 a.m., the questions get loud. Maybe tonight, instead of Googling, you write the text, or book the session, or walk down the hall and knock on the door you’ve been avoiding. Not because you’re weak, but because you’re finally strong enough to stop pretending.

If this landed with you, share it with a man who’s been carrying everything by himself. Follow @themajopodcast on YouTube, Spotify, and other podcast platforms to catch weekly episodes. For more daily reflections and tools you can actually use, follow us across socials at @themajopodcast. And on Facebook, connect with me at @thetherapygiant, and @thegiant_therapist on Instagram and TikTok.

Let’s keep doing the brave thing,

together.