“Be a man.”
Not just a voice—
a chorus.
Television scripts, locker room laughs,
teachers with sharp smiles,
uncles at funerals.
The world said it over and over
until it echoed in my chest
louder than my heartbeat.

Toughen up.
Men don’t cry.
Grow a spine.
Don’t be weak.

They called it growing up.
I called it disappearing.

So I swallowed softness,
one emotion at a time—
compassion, fear,
grief, joy.
Tied them in a knot
and buried them behind my ribs
where no one could see.

Pain was a private ritual.
Shame, a second skin.
I learned to laugh when it hurt.
To bleed in silence.
To treat vulnerability
like a sickness I couldn’t afford to show.

They told me I was strong.
And I am—
but at what cost?

There are days
I touch my own reflection
and feel nothing.
There are nights
when I want to scream,
but all that comes out
is a breath
too tired to be heard.

This is what boys are made of:
wires where nerves should be,
mirrors that never show weakness,
and fists
clenched so long
we forgot how to hold anything gently.

I survived.
I adapted.
I became the man they wanted.

But sometimes,
when it’s quiet,
I ask myself—

what did I lose to become him?