The first time I was confronted with the idea that men might be starving for emotional intimacy was through my father.
When I was a little girl, we would lie in bed together before I went to sleep and talk about big, worldly concepts. He taught me about the duel between Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton (before Lin-Manuel Miranda made it cool), the intricacies of Watergate, the Iran-Contra affair, and the Bay of Pigs. He taught me about Jackie Robinson, Abraham Lincoln, and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., as well as other heroes of his whose through-line was bravery, integrity, and a belief in the inherent worth of all human beings.
They were visionaries for a better, safer world.
I may have been only 11, but without either of us realizing it, my father was also teaching me about the paradoxical tragedy that can come with being a man. I was bearing witness to someone who desired a safer world while remaining fundamentally unequipped with the emotional tools to create safety within his own family.
As I got older, I began to outgrow our bedtime ritual. What had once felt like a special connection between us gradually became more complicated. I loved that I could meet my father in that intellectual space. It made me feel smart, capable, and important.
And yet, I was also beginning to recognize the contradictions within him. Here was a man who believed deeply in the dignity and inherent worth of human beings, but who sometimes struggled to extend that same tenderness and respect to the people closest to him.
As I entered adolescence, I began to pull away.
My father experienced my distance as rejection. He didn't understand why something that had once brought us so much closeness now felt different to me.
I understand those moments differently today. As a therapist, I've come to recognize how anger can sometimes protect us from more vulnerable feelings like grief, shame, loneliness, and fear.
I wonder whether my father's anger was, in part, an expression of how deeply he missed me.
He wanted our intimacy back. But he didn't always know how to ask for it in ways that allowed us both to feel understood.
I was beginning to learn something that would eventually shape my life's work: wanting intimacy and knowing how to create it are two very different things.
How Masculinity Shapes Men's Relationship With Intimacy
My father wasn't an emotionally vacant man. He was curious, intellectually engaged, funny, and capable of extraordinary tenderness. But he also seemed to struggle with the vulnerability required to sustain emotional closeness, particularly when relationships didn't unfold according to his expectations.
I now recognize this contradiction in many of the men I've encountered throughout my life and clinical career.
We often teach boys to value independence, strength, competence, and self-sufficiency. These qualities aren't inherently problematic. But when they become rigid expectations, they can leave little room for uncertainty, dependency, sadness, or fear.
The message becomes something like this: be strong, but don't need anyone. Find a partner, but don't be too vulnerable. Provide for your family, but don't burden them with your feelings.
And somehow, within these contradictions, build a deeply intimate relationship.
The American Psychological Association's guidelines for working with boys and men recognize that rigid masculine expectations can discourage emotional expression and help-seeking. Research also suggests that stronger adherence to certain traditional masculine norms is associated with poorer psychological outcomes and greater reluctance to seek help.
Of course, masculinity isn't one universal experience. Race, culture, sexuality, class, family history, and countless other factors shape what it means to be a man. Nor are emotional difficulties exclusive to men.
But I have become increasingly interested in the ways some men are taught to pursue connection while being discouraged from developing the emotional skills that connection requires.
What Working With Men Taught Me About Loneliness
When I first became interested in psychology, my father told me he thought therapists entered the profession to figure out what was wrong with themselves.
I respected his intellect, and his words stayed with me longer than I care to admit.
Then, one afternoon, my father had a massive stroke in front of me. His ability to communicate was profoundly changed, and the intellectual conversations that had defined our relationship were suddenly gone.
For years afterward, one of the few phrases he could reliably say was, "How are you?"
When I got my first job, he managed to ask, "How much?" I like to believe this was his way of making sure I was being paid my worth, having taught me to negotiate my allowance years earlier.
Eventually, I became a therapist anyway.
My early career brought me into contact with survivors of domestic violence, families navigating profound trauma, and men whose lives had been shaped by abuse, neglect, substance use, incarceration, and community violence.
For years, I was immersed in the complicated ways people both experience and perpetrate harm.
Over time, I began to recognize that some of the questions I was exploring professionally were also questions I had been carrying personally.
I became curious about the ways our earliest relationships shape what feels familiar to us, how we understand intimacy, and the patterns we may unconsciously repeat.
Perhaps this is one of the more interesting things about becoming a therapist: the work can deepen our understanding of others while simultaneously inviting us to reconsider our own histories.
When I began working more extensively with men in family therapy, something unexpected happened.
Men who initially presented as guarded, angry, defensive, or emotionally distant began sharing experiences of extraordinary vulnerability.
They spoke about childhood abuse, abandonment, humiliation, shame, and the fear of never being enough. Some had spent years developing ways of protecting themselves from emotions they didn't know how to name.
I watched what happened when these men experienced tenderness, respect, and compassion without being absolved of responsibility for their actions.
Their defenses sometimes softened.
They cried, and sometimes I cried with them.
They softened, and I softened with them.
As someone who had experienced harm in relationships with men, I found something profoundly moving about witnessing their fuller humanity.
I was learning to hold two truths simultaneously: men can be responsible for the harm they cause, and they can also be suffering within the very systems that grant them power.
Understanding someone's pain does not excuse abusive behavior. But it can help us understand the conditions in which harmful patterns develop and what meaningful change might require.
I began to realize that not all men were benefiting equally from the patriarchy. Some were also struggling to survive its expectations.
Why Emotional Vulnerability Can Feel So Difficult for Men
When I opened my private practice, I initially imagined that I would work primarily with women.
And then men started coming through my door.
Some were struggling with anxiety or depression. Others wanted to become better partners, understand their anger, process trauma, or make sense of an unsettling feeling that something was missing from their lives.
Again and again, I encountered men who were thoughtful, capable, and deeply invested in their relationships but had remarkably few places where they felt comfortable sharing their internal worlds.
They could talk about their careers, responsibilities, interests, and ambitions. But conversations about loneliness, insecurity, shame, or fear often felt unfamiliar.
Some had never considered what it might mean to cultivate friendships in which they could be emotionally vulnerable.
And the research suggests that this distinction matters.
A 2025 Pew Research Center study found that men and women reported feeling lonely at roughly similar rates. However, women were more likely to say they would turn to friends for emotional support: 54% of women compared with 38% of men.
In other words, the issue isn't necessarily that men experience more loneliness or have fewer friends. It's that some men may have fewer relationships in which they feel comfortable seeking emotional support.
I've noticed this distinction in my own clinical work.
Some men describe having plenty of people to spend time with but very few people they can tell when they're afraid.
Others have never experienced the relief of being emotionally known by another man.
When I ask about their friendships, they sometimes describe shared activities rather than shared emotional experiences. Both forms of connection are valuable, but they don't necessarily meet the same needs.
I think about how frequently boys are discouraged from expressing tenderness or vulnerability through insults that equate softness with femininity.
We tell boys not to cry, not to be weak, not to need too much.
Then we wonder why some of those boys become men who struggle to tell their partners how they feel.
We teach men how to catch a partner instead of how to open themselves up to one.
The Cost of Emotional Disconnection in Relationships
When I was traveling alone in Australia in 2016, I found myself craving connection.
Rather than waiting for friendship to happen organically, I decided to approach it the way children do. I began asking acquaintances to spend time together, essentially the adult version of, "Do you want to have a playdate?"
It felt surprisingly vulnerable.
What if they thought I was strange? What if they weren't interested? What if I seemed needy?
But I also knew that if I wanted connection, I would have to tolerate the possibility of rejection.
I often think about that experience when working with clients who struggle to form close friendships.
Intimacy requires us to risk being known.
And being known means allowing someone to see the parts of ourselves that don't always fit the image we'd prefer to present.
For people who have learned that vulnerability is dangerous, this can feel terrifying.
Sometimes emotional discomfort gets managed through work, alcohol, cannabis, pornography, scrolling, gaming, or other activities that provide temporary relief. None of these behaviors automatically indicates a problem, and people engage in them for many reasons. But they can become ways of avoiding feelings that are difficult to tolerate.
Other times, emotional disconnection shows up in romantic relationships.
A partner becomes frustrated that they can't get beyond surface-level conversations. One person longs for closeness while the other retreats into silence or defensiveness. Both may feel lonely, even while sharing a home and a life.
I've worked with men who desperately want to be better partners but struggle to identify what they're feeling, let alone communicate it.
I might say, "You sound afraid."
"No," they'll respond. "I'm not scared. I'm frustrated."
"Okay," I'll say. "What are you frustrated about?"
And slowly, we begin to uncover something more vulnerable.
They're afraid they won't be enough. Afraid their partner will realize they're disappointing. Afraid they'll never accomplish what they hoped to accomplish. Afraid that despite everything they've built, their lives won't feel meaningful.
Beneath the frustration, there may be fear.
And beneath the fear, a longing to feel accepted without having to prove their worth.
Of course, not every expression of anger conceals fear, and not every relationship difficulty can be traced to emotional repression. Depression, anxiety, trauma-related conditions, and other mental health concerns have complex and varied causes.
But learning to recognize and communicate emotions can be an important part of developing healthier relationships.
When we repeatedly tell ourselves to toughen up, we may miss an opportunity to understand what our feelings are trying to tell us.
What Helps Men Build Emotional Intimacy?
I've often reflected on how fortunate I am to have people in my life whom I can turn to when things fall apart.
Friends who will listen when I'm overwhelmed, who will sit with me in sadness, who will remind me of who I am when I've temporarily lost sight of myself.
I've come to understand how much emotional resilience depends not only on our internal resources, but on the relationships that sustain us.
And I wonder what happens to people who don't have that kind of support.
What happens when a romantic partner becomes the only person we feel safe enough to turn to? What happens when that relationship ends, or when the emotional demands placed on it become too great?
Intimacy, I've learned, isn't simply about finding one person who understands us. It's also about building a life in which we have multiple opportunities to be known, supported, and connected.
That tension is central to how I understand my work with men.
I don't believe emotional growth requires abandoning strength, independence, or masculinity. I believe it requires expanding our understanding of what those qualities can look like.
Strength can mean acknowledging fear.
Independence can coexist with asking for support.
Accountability can include recognizing the pain we've caused without collapsing into shame.
And intimacy can mean allowing someone to see us when we don't have everything figured out.
In therapy, that work might begin with something as simple as learning to distinguish frustration from disappointment, sadness, or fear. It might involve exploring early relationships, recognizing protective patterns, developing emotional regulation skills, or practicing more honest conversations with partners and friends.
It can also mean learning to cultivate connection outside a romantic relationship, so that one person isn't expected to meet every emotional need.
A systematic review of research on masculinity and depression-related help-seeking suggests that masculine norms can create barriers to seeking psychological support. And a 2025 meta-analysis further examined the relationship between traditional masculinity and attitudes toward seeking professional help.
For some men, therapy itself becomes an opportunity to practice a different kind of relationship: one in which uncertainty, vulnerability, and emotional expression don't diminish their worth.
I consider that work sacred.
Not because I believe men are uniquely wounded or uniquely deserving of compassion, but because I've witnessed what can happen when people are finally given room to experience the fullness of their humanity.
I think about my father often.
About the conversations we had, the tenderness he was capable of, and the ways our relationship changed as I grew older.
I wonder what might have been different if he'd had more opportunities to explore his own emotional world, to understand what he needed from the people he loved, and to express those needs without shame.
Of course, I can't know.
But I do know that the capacity for intimacy isn't something we either possess or lack. It's something we can develop, practice, and deepen over time.
My hope is that we continue creating a world in which men don't have to choose between being strong and being emotionally available, where women aren't expected to carry the emotional lives of everyone around them, and where all of us have permission to be fully human.
Because intimacy isn't simply about finding someone who will love us.
It's about learning how to let ourselves be known.
Building More Meaningful Connections
If you recognize yourself or your relationship in these patterns, therapy can offer a space to explore how your experiences have shaped the way you connect with others.
I work with individuals and couples navigating relational trauma, emotional disconnection, communication difficulties, and relationship challenges. I offer in-person therapy in Midtown Manhattan and virtual therapy throughout New York and New Jersey.
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Frequently Asked Questions
Why do some men struggle with emotional intimacy?
Some men grow up with expectations that discourage vulnerability, emotional expression, or asking for support. These experiences can make it difficult to recognize feelings, communicate needs, and develop emotionally close relationships. However, family dynamics, trauma, personality, culture, and individual experiences also play important roles.
Are men lonelier than women?
Not necessarily. Pew Research Center's 2025 findings suggest that men and women report loneliness at similar rates, although women are more likely to seek emotional support from friends and certain family members.
Can therapy help men become more emotionally available?
Therapy can help people develop emotional awareness, explore patterns learned in earlier relationships, practice vulnerability, and improve communication. The process is individualized and requires willingness to engage in change.
How can couples improve emotional intimacy?
Couples can begin by creating opportunities for honest conversations, responding to vulnerability with curiosity rather than criticism, and learning to express emotional needs more clearly. Couples therapy can help when these patterns are difficult to change independently.
