They keep saying “Man Up”

Like silence is some kind of sacrament.

Like swallowing your grief whole

Is how you earn your stripes.

---

But I’ve seen what that silence does.

I’ve seen it wrap around a neck,

Like a necktie turned noose.

I’ve seen boys hide their hearts, and call it manhood.

---

“Boys don’t cry.”

Nah.  They just punch walls.

Break their own knuckles.

Drink, hoping for a solution

Until it’s someone else’s problem.

Until it’s their funeral.

---

And we call that strength?

---

Eighty percent. That’s not a number.

That’s a mass grave. A choir of voices

That were only echoes. 

Just statistics.

---

Just “He was such a good guy.

He was always laughing…

Even after the desert stopped being a location

And started being an emotional state.”

---

We’re told to be tough,

But we’re never taught to be whole. 

Told to carry the weight,

Yet we’re never told how to put it down.

---

They call it manhood. I call it emotional malpractice.

And I’m done treating tenderness like a threat.

Done pretending that depression wears a hoodie.

And not a three-piece suit or a uniform.

---

Because mental health is not a solo act.

It’s a group text at 2am…

It’s “You good?”

It’s “Nah, but thanks for asking.”

It’s therapy without shame.

It’s community without competition.

It’s crying in the open, but not being called broken.

---

So yeah… Man down is not a defeat.

It’s a signal flare.

A Mayday call.

A prayer we are finally brave enough to say out loud.

---

And if you’ve made it this far; your heart is still beating

Under all that armour (real or remembered),

And this is your permission…

To rest. To rage. To reach.

---

This is your poem. This is your mirror.

This is your reason to stay.

Because feeling isn’t failing.

It’s fighting back.