Before They Could Cry: What I’ve Learned Holding Space for Black Men

There’s a certain kind of hope you carry when you’re raising someone with love. You hope that if you listen closely, speak gently, and model emotional honesty, the world won’t be able to take that softness away. That was the hope I held while raising my sons.

I worked hard to create a safe space. I encouraged them to speak their minds, to explore their feelings, to trust that their emotions had value. I gave them what I had, and what I had to learn on my own—tools, tenderness, room to be.

But somewhere along the way, something shifted. As they grew older, I started to notice how quiet they became when I asked how they were really feeling. Not because they didn’t want to talk, but because they had already started learning it wasn’t always safe to be honest. And no matter how much love I wrapped around them, the world had its own lessons waiting. That realization sat heavy with me.

This piece is a reflection about the gap between what we teach and what the world teaches back. About the weight our boys carry into manhood, and the silence they often inherit. And it’s also about what it means to keep holding space—for them, and for ourselves—in a world that’s too often taught us both to go quiet.

The Unspoken Lessons That Shape Our Boys

They’ve since shared stories of being shamed for showing emotion—laughed at for crying, brushed off when they reached for tenderness, or told to "man up" when they needed comfort. Not always by strangers. Sometimes the silence was shaped by people they trusted, by environments that mistook love for control, or strength for stoicism. And when a boy’s natural need for connection is met with rejection, something begins to close.

The silencing often starts early, and the world is quick to reinforce it. Boys learn to read the room, to tuck their feelings into corners, to be agreeable but not emotional, present but not vulnerable. They learn that closeness can be risky, and that their softness might be punished. Over time, those lessons harden into armor. And by the time that boy becomes a man, taking that armor off can feel more dangerous than keeping it on.

But something’s different now. The world is louder about mental health, about healing, about vulnerability—but that noise doesn’t always make space for men. Especially not Black men. They’re hearing the language of emotional wellness more than ever, but rarely seeing themselves reflected in it. It’s like being invited into the room, but no one saved you a seat. That’s what this generation is navigating—more exposure and visibility, but not more safety or care. And that gap is where so many of them get lost.

This Generation’s Men Are Hurting

One day, in a conversation with my adult sons, they brought up dating in today’s world. And one of them said something that broke my heart: "It's like women don't even value men anymore."

I didn’t hear that as bitterness—I heard it as grief. A quiet sadness from boys I once held, now men navigating a world that often doesn’t know what to do with their tenderness. And I thought about how many men are carrying that same weight: feeling unseen, unwanted, unworthy—not because they’ve done anything wrong, but because they’ve been written out of the emotional story we tell about healing and care.

A close friend of mine once said, “This generation doesn’t just criticize men… it chips away at them.” And I’ll be honest—I didn’t fully understand what he meant at first. I’d heard the criticism, the loud parts: the generalizations, the blame, the dismissal. But this was something quieter, more persistent. So he broke it down for me.

He talked about the passive ways it happens—the small, constant signals that tell men they are only useful if they’re performing. That their worth is tied to how much they provide, how well they endure, how quickly they recover. He named how the very idea of needing help, expressing hurt, or asking for softness is often met with side-eyes or silence.

As I listened, I started to see what he was naming—not just in society, but in some of the conversations I’ve had with my own sons. It’s not always loud. Sometimes it’s quiet enough to miss. But it’s steady. And over time, it wears them down—not all at once, but piece by piece. Until the men we love begin to shrink in ways we can’t always see, but they can definitely feel.

Holding Space for Black Men in My Office

That slow erosion my friend talked about—the one I didn’t fully grasp at first? I’ve seen it show up in the eyes of men in therapy sessions who have been strong for too long. There is something uniquely heartbreaking about witnessing a Black man come undone—not because he’s weak, but because he’s exhausted. I’ve sat with men whose voices trembled as they tried to explain the weight they were carrying. Men who hadn’t cried in years or who weren’t sure they were allowed to.And when it happens, when the tears finally come, it’s not quiet. It may not be loud, but it’s not quiet. It fills the room with a grief that feels like it's been waiting a lifetime for permission to speak.

One man came to me during the height of the Black Lives Matter movement and said: "I'm afraid sis. I don't know what to do with this fear and anger. I need to talk to someone who actually cares about me and what I'm going through (as a Black man)." That moment stayed with me. It was more than a session—it was a call. It clarified something deep in me: the work I do has to be a place where our men feel seen, held, and honored in their full humanity. Where they don’t have to perform healing to deserve it. That one moment became a quiet compass, shaping how I show up—not just as a therapist, but as someone who still believes in the power of care that doesn’t demand anything in return.

And I still carry that moment with me. Every time I hear the long pause before a man answers the question, “How are you, really?” Every time I see the shift in their shoulders when they realize they don’t have to brace themselves here.

And somewhere in all of this—in the tears I’ve witnessed, in the silence I’ve sat with—I started thinking more deeply about my own role, not just as a therapist, but as a mother. I reflected on the lessons I gave, the ones I missed, and the quiet gaps in between.

The Mistakes I Made with Love

Looking back, I can see how much of my parenting was shaped by a desire to protect. I wanted my sons to feel everything I never had—safety, softness, presence. I poured love into them like it was armor, hoping it would shield them from the kinds of pain I had known too well. And in many ways, it did. But sometimes, in trying so hard to protect them, I didn’t give them enough room to practice pain and navigate disappointment, too feel hurt and still find their way back. I was so focused on keeping the hard things out that I didn’t always teach them how to move through them when they inevitably came.

That realization doesn’t come with guilt as much as it comes with humility. Because I did what I thought was right. I gave what I had. But now I understand that love isn’t always about removing the sharp edges—it’s about helping them hold the tools to shape themselves, even when it gets messy.

And maybe that’s part of my healing too—acknowledging that even our best efforts come with shadows. That our nurturing can sometimes be too soft, our protection a little too tight. I carry that truth with compassion now, not shame. Because learning is still a kind of love. And I’m still learning.

In the end, this reflection isn’t just about my sons—it’s about the many ways we all participate, knowingly or not, in shaping how men experience their emotions. It’s about the gap between our intentions and our impact, the tenderness we offer and the tools we sometimes forget to give. If we want to support the mental health of our men—especially our Black and Brown men—we have to be willing to look inward too. Not with shame, but with softness. With the kind of honesty that doesn’t just call things out, but calls things in. Because healing doesn’t begin at the therapist’s door—it begins in the small moments of how we love, how we listen, and how we choose to keep showing up.

Written by Carlita L. Coley, LPC

Before they knew the world might try to quiet them, my sons smiled without hesitation (2002). I just hope they keep finding spaces—and people—where that version of themselves still feels possible.

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About the Author

I’m a mother, therapist, and woman who’s listened to the quiet ways pain shows up in people we love. I wrote this as someone who’s still learning how to hold space for men while reckoning with the weight they carry—and the ways I’ve carried it too. These words came out of real conversations, real moments, and a deep need to speak to the silence that surrounds our sons, our brothers, our fathers, and our friends. Writing is one of the ways I try to hold what the world too often drops.