It’s International Men’s Day today, 19th November. You probably didn’t know that, and I wouldn’t blame you. There are no cards in the shops, no special adverts during the break in Coronation Street, no social media campaigns from brands trying to flog you something with a blue ribbon attached to it.
Which is fine, honestly. We don’t need another commercialised day where everyone pretends to care for 24 hours before moving on. But what we do need—what we desperately, urgently need—is to talk about why this day exists in the first place.
Because men are dying.
Not dramatically. Not in ways that make the news. They’re dying quietly, in spare rooms and car parks and rented flats, having convinced themselves that no one would care anyway. They’re dying because we’ve built a world where asking for help feels like failure, where vulnerability is weakness, where “manning up” is still considered viable mental health advice.
And I’m tired of it.
The Numbers Don’t Lie (Even If We Do)
Let’s start with the uncomfortable bit, shall we? The statistics that should make us all sit up and pay attention, but somehow get buried under think pieces about whether men can have opinions about anything anymore.
In the UK, suicide is the single biggest killer of men under 45. Not cancer. Not car accidents. Suicide. Three-quarters of all suicides are by men. Let that sink in for a moment. Three out of every four people who decide that life isn’t worth living anymore are male.
Men are also significantly less likely to seek help for mental health problems. We’re taught from childhood that boys don’t cry, that showing emotion is embarrassing, that we should sort ourselves out. We internalise this rubbish so thoroughly that by the time we’re adults, we genuinely believe it would be inconvenient to bother anyone with our feelings.
And then we wonder why men are struggling.
The Lonely Paradox
Here’s something I’ve noticed: we talk a lot about toxic masculinity these days, and rightly so. The idea that men need to be aggressive, emotionally stunted, and sexually dominant has done immeasurable damage. But in our rush to dismantle these harmful stereotypes, we’ve sometimes forgotten that men are still human beings who need connection, support, and permission to be vulnerable.
The paradox is this: we tell men they need to open up and talk about their feelings, but we haven’t actually created many spaces where that feels safe or even possible.
When a man does try to talk about his struggles, he’s often met with one of several responses:
- “At least you don’t have to deal with [insert women’s issue here]”
- “Man up”
- Awkward silence
- Well-meaning but ultimately unhelpful advice like “have you tried going to the gym?”
None of these responses helps. All of them reinforce the idea that men’s pain doesn’t really matter, or at least matters less than everyone else’s.
The Friendship Deficit
There’s another crisis hiding in plain sight: men don’t have friends. Or rather, we have mates—people we go to the pub with, watch football with, maybe play five-a-side with on Thursdays. But actual friends? People we can be honest with? People we can cry in front of? Those are vanishingly rare.
Women, on average, maintain much richer emotional support networks. They text each other, they check in, they create spaces for vulnerability. Men… don’t. We let friendships drift. We convince ourselves we’re too busy. We think that needing emotional support is somehow embarrassing.
And then we end up married or in long-term relationships where our partner becomes our sole source of emotional intimacy, which is a lot of pressure to put on one person, frankly. It’s not healthy for us, and it’s not fair to them either.
I’ve lost count of the number of conversations I’ve had with men—good, intelligent, thoughtful men—who admit they don’t have a single friend they could really talk to if things got bad. Not one. They have colleagues and acquaintances and people they nod at in the supermarket, but no one they could call at 2 am and say, “I’m not okay.”
That’s terrifying.
What We Get Wrong About Strength
The cruel irony is that we’ve completely misunderstood what strength actually means.
We think strength is stoicism, silence, and suffering alone. We think it’s keeping your problems to yourself, sorting yourself out, not being a burden. We think real men don’t need help.
But that’s not a strength. That’s just fear wearing a different mask.
Real strength is admitting when you’re struggling. It’s asking for help when you need it. It’s being honest about your feelings even when every instinct is screaming at you to bottle it up. It’s showing up for therapy, taking your medication, telling your mates you’re not actually fine.
Real strength is refusing to pretend that mental illness isn’t real, that depression is just sadness you can snap out of, that anxiety is overthinking you can logic your way through.
Real strength is staying alive when everything in you wants to quit.
The Weight of Expectation
Part of what makes this so difficult is the sheer weight of expectation that men carry around. We’re supposed to be providers, protectors, fixers. We’re supposed to have our shit together. We’re supposed to know what we’re doing.
And when we don’t—when we’re broke, or scared, or lost, or failing—it doesn’t just feel like a temporary setback. It feels like proof that we’re not real men. That we’re frauds who’ve somehow conned everyone into thinking we were competent adults when really we’re just terrified children in grown-up clothes.
The thing is, everyone feels like that sometimes. But men aren’t allowed to admit it. We’re not given permission to be uncertain or vulnerable or human.
So we pretend. We fake it. We put on the mask and hope no one notices the cracks.
Until eventually, we can’t anymore.
What Actually Helps
Right, enough doom and gloom. What can we actually do about this?
First, we need to create genuine spaces for men to be vulnerable. Not performative vulnerability where we share our feelings for likes on social media, but real, messy, uncomfortable honesty. Men’s groups, therapy, even just mates who’ve decided they’re going to actually check in with each other properly.
Second: we need to stop treating men’s mental health as some sort of competition with women’s issues. This isn’t a zero-sum game. Women face unique challenges with their mental health. So do men. Both can be true simultaneously. Both deserve attention and resources.
Third: we need to actively teach boys and young men that emotions are normal, that asking for help is sensible, that being kind and open and vulnerable doesn’t make you less of a man—it makes you more of a human being.
Fourth: we need better mental health services that are actually accessible. Not just telling men to “reach out” when reaching out means waiting six months for an NHS therapy appointment or paying £80 an hour for private counselling. Real, funded, available support.
Fifth: we need to check in on the men in our lives. Properly. Not just “how’s it going?” but actually listening when they answer. Actually noticing when they’re struggling. Actually showing up.
The Personal Bit
I’ll be honest with you: I’ve struggled with this myself. There have been times in my life when I’ve been properly not okay, when the weight of everything felt unbearable, when I couldn’t see a way forward.
And each time, the hardest part wasn’t the depression or anxiety itself. It was admitting I needed help. It was that voice in my head saying, “You’re being dramatic”, or “other people have it worse”, or “you’re supposed to be able to handle this.”
That voice nearly killed me.
What saved me was finally, reluctantly, and embarrassedly admitting to people that I wasn’t coping. It was therapy and medication and mates who didn’t try to fix me but just sat with me in the mess. It was slowly, painfully learning that needing help doesn’t make you weak—it makes you honest.
I still struggle sometimes. I still have to fight the instinct to pretend everything’s fine when it isn’t. But I’m better at it now. I’ve learned that the people who matter don’t think less of me for being human. And the people who do think less of me don’t actually matter.
Why Today Matters
So yes, it’s International Men’s Day. And no, you don’t need to buy anyone a card or post some motivational quote with a picture of a bloke in a suit staring meaningfully at the horizon.
But you could text a mate and ask how they’re actually doing. You could have an honest conversation about mental health. You could donate to a men’s mental health charity. You could decide that you’re going to be the kind of person who makes space for vulnerability.
Because men are still dying. Quietly. Alone. Convinced that their pain doesn’t matter.
And we can do better than that.
We have to do better than that.
If you’re struggling, please reach out. Call the Samaritans on 116 123 (it’s free, and they don’t judge). Text SHOUT to 85258. Talk to your GP. Tell someone. Anyone. You’re not alone, even when it feels like you are.
Until Next Time
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