I hate the statement: "I showed My Manliness when I Lost My parents"
Oluwagbenga Abiola@oluwagbengaabiola322369
7 days ago
I Hate the Statement: “I Showed My Manliness When I Lost My Parents”
I remember sitting with some folks, listening to them talk about the pain of losing their parents. Some shared stories about the unimaginable sacrifices their parents made—working multiple jobs, going hungry so their kids could eat, walking miles just to send them to school. These weren’t just parents; they were warriors, miracle workers, human shields.
And yet, in the middle of all that deep reflection, someone always throws in that ridiculous, empty phrase:
“I showed my manliness when I lost my parents.”
For real? What are these guys even saying?
That was my honest reaction.
Since when did grief become a battleground to prove masculinity? Since when did crying become weakness and emotional numbness become strength?
What has this world turned into?
Yes, I know—some people have had broken relationships with their parents. Not every story is filled with love. Some are marked by pain, betrayal, even abandonment. I respect that reality. But still, I believe in the saying, “blood is thicker than water.” Not in the twisted, misquoted way people use it to prioritize family over friendships, but in its original, deeper sense: that family bonds—when rooted in love—are sacred, often forged in blood, sweat, and countless silent sacrifices.
Now, let’s talk about love.
Real love—the kind that leaves a mark on your soul—is not polite. It doesn’t wear a tie and walk with calm footsteps. Real love is fierce. It’s loud. It’s protective. It’s the way your mom stayed up when you had a fever. It’s the way she forgave you even when you didn’t say sorry. It’s the way her voice could calm the storm in your mind. That kind of love? It’s not something you manage when it’s gone. You don’t “man up” when it dies—you collapse under it, and that’s okay.
Love wrecks composure.
Real love doesn’t let you keep your shoulders square and your eyes dry.
Real love breaks you—and that’s not weakness, that’s the price of having something real in the first place.
So when I lost my mother, I didn’t know what “composure” even meant. I didn’t feel like a “man.” I just felt like a son who had lost his world. I cried—loudly, bitterly, hopelessly. And I’m still crying. Because her love still lives inside me, and her absence still haunts me.
And no—I don’t want to be composed. I don’t want to be calm. I don’t want to pretend that her death made me stronger. It broke me. And that’s okay.
I don’t want your applause for being emotionally mute at a funeral. I don’t want to be part of a culture that trains men to bottle up pain until it poisons them from within.
I’ve seen men who wouldn’t show “manliness” even at gunpoint—cowards in every way—but suddenly want a standing ovation because they didn’t shed a tear when they buried their mother.
That’s not manliness. That’s emotional paralysis. That’s fear wearing a tough face.
Worse still, I’ve seen men turn their parents’ death into a political stage—saying things like,
“I skipped my father’s burial to support a friend’s campaign,”
and people clap for that.
Clap for what?
Neglecting your dying parent to chase ambition isn’t noble—it’s heartless.
Listen, if I ever support you and you use your loved one’s downfall as a stepping stone to boost your career, you’ve lost me. Forever.
Because love isn't supposed to make you shine in public while you rot inside.
Love is supposed to undo you. To shake you. To break you into tears that don’t care who’s watching.
So enough of this stupidity—this nonsense that equates stoicism with strength. Enough of this fake manliness.
Grief isn’t a performance.
Love isn’t a competition.
And manhood isn’t proven in how silently you suffer, but in how honestly you feel.
Written by @oluwagbengaabiola322369
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