Rage, Love, and the Weight of Silence
Rage, Love, and the Weight of Silence
By Nathan Shenton
Being a man, they say, means being strong. Stoic. Unshakeable.
But what if my strength is in how deeply I feel?
What if I’ve been crumbling behind that silence all along?
I cry.
Often.
At music. At cruelty. At kindness. At nothing at all.
I feel everything—deeply. More than people realise.
And for years, I was terrified to admit it.
Because I am a man. And men are told to be solid, to be unmoved. To endure in silence. We’re told to “man up,” as if being human is some kind of failure.
But I’m not a statue.
I’m not made of stone.
I’ve spent nights staring at the ceiling with my fists clenched and my chest heavy, wondering why I feel like this—why sadness and love, grief and pride, rage and softness all exist inside me at the same time, like a storm that never settles. And the worst part? I thought I had to face it alone.
No one told me it was okay to speak.
No one told me men could break.
And if they did, it better be behind closed doors. Quiet.
Invisible.
But I broke anyway.
I broke in silence. In the pressure of pretending I was fine. In the guilt of being a father who sometimes doesn’t feel strong. In the pain of watching the world lose its humanity—humility dying faster than glaciers melt, compassion being outpaced by cruelty.
And yet, in that collapse, I found something else:
Relief.
The moment I let the words leave my mouth.
The moment I cried in front of someone and didn’t apologise.
The moment I said, “I’m not okay.”
That’s when I began to heal.
That’s when I began to feel whole—not because I was perfect, but because I stopped hiding the truth of me.
I love my children with every ounce of my soul.
I feel rage at the injustice in this world.
I laugh loudly.
I grieve deeply.
I cry in the car.
I sing when no one is listening.
I ache when I see others in pain.
I am a man.
But I am also human.
And if that means I sometimes need an ear, a tear, or a safe space to say “I’m scared,” so be it.
Because bottling it up is not bravery.
Pretending you’re fine is not courage.
Speaking up is.
And if you're reading this and holding it all in like I used to—let it out.
You don’t have to carry it all.
You’re allowed to feel.
You’re allowed to be soft.
You’re allowed to be you.