Men, Silence, and the Weight We Carry

By Suhail Patel (MLXN Volunteer)

A piece for Men's Mental Health Awareness Month

Earlier this year, the Government launched a call for evidence to inform England’s first Men’s Health Strategy. The statistics remain deeply troubling: three in four people who died by suicide in 2024 were men, and suicide continues to be the leading cause of death for men under 50. Alongside this, men are disproportionately drawn into harmful behaviours such as smoking, alcohol use, gambling and substance misuse all, of which contribute to long-term physical and mental health challenges.

The reasons behind this crisis are layered. But one truth resonates across people, cultures, and communities and that is Men are still suffering in silence.

Growing up, I struggle to recall moments when I ever sat with my friends and spoke openly about sadness, issues, fear or shame. We could spend hours analysing football, eating out, planning trips, going on retreats — yet we rarely breathed a word about the storms that were unfolding inside our hearts. It was as if vulnerability was a language none of us had learned to speak.

It wasn’t until my 30s, when I became more conscious of my own mental health, that I began to see the silent battles around me. Friends quietly going through divorce. Others dealing with mental illness in the family, grief, some carrying huge financial burdens. Some fighting addictions. Some simply burnt out from life. And still, we didn’t talk. I was the same. During my divorce, I isolated myself for almost a year, too ashamed to reach out and too unsure of how to articulate my grief.

Looking back, I often wonder, did we cope badly because we had never built safe spaces where we could be vulnerable? Or was it a generational thing that taught us to hold everything in, even if it cost us our wellbeing?

Islam teaches us something different. The Prophet (ﷺ) said, “The believer to the believer is like a building, each part supports the other” (Bukhari & Muslim)

Yet many of us grew up with the opposite message. Just get on with it, don’t complain, don’t cry. As a result we have passed down this emotional tightness like a family treasure.

And today, a new layer has entered the space. The online ‘manosphere’. A loud, toxic space telling men, ‘Don’t be soft’, ‘Don’t show emotion’, ‘Grind harder’, ‘Hustle without pause’ and ‘If you care about someone, you’re a “simp!’’.

But our Deen gives us a very different view of manhood. The Prophet (ﷺ) expressed grief, cried, hugged and consoled. He experienced sadness so deep that a whole year of his life was named ‘The Year of Sorrow’. He (ﷺ) taught us that:

“Gentleness is not found in anything except that it beautifies it….” (Muslim)

The strong man in the Deen is not the one who suppresses emotion, but the one who faces emotion with humility, patience and is gentle with himself.

One of the biggest changes in my life has been recognising the quiet signals that men may give off when they’re overwhelmed. It isn’t always visible. Men rarely say, “I’m struggling.” It may show up in cancelled plans, shorter messages, silence, irritability, exhaustion and withdrawal. And for years, I didn’t know how to respond or if I should.

But now, when I sense that someone is carrying a heavy emotional load, I no longer assume they’re “fine.” I’ve learned that even a small gesture of concern, a voice note, a brief call, a sincere dua - can help the isolation. It may not remove the pressure, but it breaks the loneliness. And sometimes, for a man who feels like he must hold everything together, that small sign of concern is enough to help him breathe again.

What I’ve also come to realise is that many men don’t crumble because of one major event — they erode slowly after years of carrying emotional weight alone. I’ve seen how long-term silence can turn into physical stress, anxiety, obsessive habits, or unhealthy coping just to survive the pressure.

It makes me reflect deeply on our culture of just quietly enduring. How many men might have suffered less if someone had reached out earlier? How many crises could have softened if we had grown up with spaces where men could speak before they shattered?

A return to the prophetic way of supporting one another with warmth, gentleness and honesty it is deeply rooted in our Deen. There is a beautiful moment narrated in the hadith (Muslim) where the Prophet(ﷺ) stepped out of his home late at night and encountered Abu Bakr and ‘Umar (ra). He asked them, “What has brought you out at this hour?” and they replied, “Hunger, O Messenger of Allah.” The Prophet (ﷺ) responded, “By Him in Whose Hand is my soul, what brought you out is what brought me out also.”

Three of the greatest men in our Ummah, walking the streets of Madinah at night, united not by strength or bravado, but by shared vulnerability. They didn’t hide their struggles from one another. They admitted their hunger. They walked together. And they found comfort in each other’s presence. This is the way our Deen gives us brotherhood based on honesty, compassion, and the courage to say, “I’m struggling too.”

Men’s Mental Health Month is a reminder that we are not alone. The storms may be heavy, but Allah reminds us:

“Verily, with hardship comes ease.” (94:6)

We could spend hours analysing football, eating out, planning trips, going on retreats — yet we rarely breathed a word about the storms that were unfolding inside our hearts. ​