i wanna see you cry

an ode to emotional men

It is an amazing thing about being human that we can feel something inside and then build it in the world…Don’t we help birth another the instant we encourage them to see with their heart? Don’t we help birth the world each time we give someone the confidence to build what they see with their heart?

Mark Nepo, The Book of Awakening

Ever seen a grown man cry? And I mean cry. Not the quiet, dignified tears of disappointment, but big, messy sobs that shake broad shoulders and rattle the very foundations of what we think it means to be “strong.”

I have. More times than I can count.

In a world that often expects men to be impenetrable fortresses, my father is a glorious wreck of feelings.

He’s a hopeless family fanatic, a man whose heart beats so loudly it reverberates through the walls of our home. When our eyes meet, he ignites like a human sparkler at a Fourth of July picnic — all fizz, pop, and unbridled joy.

While the rest of us tiptoe around the edges of our emotions, Dad cannonballs in, sending tidal waves of affection crashing over anyone nearby. It’s overwhelming. It’s embarrassing. It’s utterly, irresistibly magnetic.

He’s the ocean itself — vast, deep, and ever-changing, and as I’ve grown, I can’t help but marvel at how his emotional freedom has birthed the woman I am.

I can’t decide what I love more…his sweet face, his smallness in contrast to the tractor, or the Spanish moss…

A word of advice: If you live in an apartment and want to adopt an animal, check the rules first.

I didn’t.

And two days after bringing sweet Delilah home, I was a pathetic puddle on my parents’ couch. My apartment’s “strict” no-puppy policy loomed like a death sentence for her. The thought of returning her scrawny body to the shelter’s cold concrete walls clawed at my raw, aching heart. I’d made a promise, damn it! How could I break it?

As I wallowed in despair, the cushions shifted. There was my dad — eyes shimmering, voice thick with love’s unmistakable timbre. “She’s not going back,” he declared. A lifeline. “You made a promise. I’ll help you keep it. She can live here.”

For the next hour, we sat side-by-side, Delilah nestled between us, as we cried thinking of all the dogs we couldn't adopt. Each tear a tribute to the furry souls we couldn't save, each sob a testament to my father’s boundless capacity for empathy.

In that moment, I understood his power: This man doesn't just feel deeply; he builds entire worlds from the fabric of his heart.

And it’s a gift to witness his duality — the gruff exterior forged in the heat of rural Louisiana, concealing a core delicate as a newborn calf’s. And when I replay our life, it's this tender side that comes into focus. There’s my father, always brimming with warmth, emotion regularly shining through his stoic veneer. He’s the embodiment of a profound truth: the most captivating individuals are those who dare to reveal their full humanity.

Because it’s in that vulnerability — that willingness to be seen in all our complexity — that we form our truest connections.

My father has always understood this.

///

This essay is a love letter, a thank you note, to the men in my life who care intensely and who boldly wear their hearts on their sleeves—

To my brother, with his gentle, mushy core — so attuned to others that he reads hearts rather than faces. His compassion isn't just a trait; it’s a superpower that makes the world a little less lonely.

To my grandfather, who, in the wake of my grandmother's passing, transformed our home into a river of grief, his tears marking paths of love and loss. This same man, with hands that once whittled dainty doll furniture for my childhood play, later found solace in building birdhouses. Through him, I learned that masculinity has many faces — it can be as sturdy as oak and as delicate as a bird’s nest.

To my Uncle Harold, a man chiseled by his years as a Marine, yet soft as clay. I remember the day he pulled out his wallet, revealing a decades-worn photo of my Old Nan, his wife. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” he whispered, eyes misty with adoration, teaching me that even the toughest armor has cracks where love blooms eternal.

But most of all, this is for my Dad. My father, who weeps over animals and babies and my Substack. Who was so overwhelmed by my brother’s birth and the news of impending surgeries that my mother had to shake him, exclaiming, “Pull it together, Trey!” The man who transforms into Florence Nightingale when any of us fall ill, his concern palpable in every worried glance.

My Dad, who looks at his little family — wife, two kids, a miniature dachshund, and Delilah — and radiates such pure, unspoiled love that it sparkles in the air around us, almost tangible enough to touch.

Each of these men, in their own unique way, has shown me the true face of masculinity. They’ve built lives with calloused hands and steely resolve and true grit, AND with tears freely shed, laughter unrestrained, and love openly given. They are living proof that strength and tenderness are not opposing forces, but rather two halves of a magnificent whole.

In their courage to lay bare their hearts, they don’t just inhabit this world, they expand it. And in doing so, they don’t diminish their power, they magnify it.

Thank you for showing me that the mightiest hearts are those that dare to break open, again and again, in service of love.

For this, my gratitude knows no bounds.

What greater gift could I have hoped for?

P.S. — Ever since my Dad discovered my Substack, he’s been dropping not-so-subtle hints... “I should be the star of a piece,” he’d say. My reply was always a simple “No.” But he’s a September baby, and I'm feeling particularly generous. So, happy early birthday, Dad. You’re crazy and absolutely as good as it gets. I hope this essay suffices as your starring role. (And aren’t you relieved that everything worked out and Delilah never had to live with you?)