He looks capable, present, even thriving at times.
Others call on him for support because he gets things done and shows up.
In secret, he's exhausted from performing, pushing down his anger, and feeling lonely. And nobody else seems to notice.
Like many men I work with, he believes that being fully himself means risking losing love.
And I know this all too well because it's how I disconnect from my longing to be myself. When I lose contact, I feel a weight on my shoulders, a kind of burden to prove myself while also resenting the task. It creates a freeze and numbness. And underneath festers spite, fired out at my loved ones or inflicted upon myself as scathing self-criticism: "You're not good enough."
In his mind, this man can't have needs, feel grief, show anger, or let his guard down because the cost seems too big. He's terrified that he'll look weak and then be rejected.
In the very beginning, it was an intelligent reaction, made before he had the power to choose.
Maybe there was nobody solid to rely on in the early years: a caregiver who was absent or unpredictable, or whose state he had to manage and soothe. Perhaps he had to grow up long before he was ready, becoming the adult because nobody else would. So he adapted, brilliantly: he became competent, self-reliant, endlessly attuned to everyone else, always a stride or two ahead, even of himself. That adaptation kept him safe then. The problem is that it's still running the show long after, and the threat has long since passed.
He can't say no, because it might cost him the connection. He can't ask for help, because needing help feels like weakness.
He seeks closeness by being useful, and then resents being wanted only for that. And he rejects others before they can reject him, because being rejected by them would be the deepest hurt.
And he longs, underneath it all, to be met, while doing everything in his power to make sure no one ever sees this.
Does this man sound familiar?
The way I work doesn't try to dig all of this up from the past. The past is already here in how you hold yourself and in what you can't say. So we slow things right down. We set aside explaining the "why" and tune in to what's being felt in the moment. Your survival strategies are treated with respect. And we meet the frightened younger part with the growing capacity of the man you're becoming.
Something important moves, because there's finally room to feel what's there.
Your anger can become a backbone, something that holds you up and gives you solid ground. You can say no, ask for help, and name your desires.
You can let yourself be known.