Will Boys Be Boys?

Rethinking Boyhood

Artwork: Greyflea

“Boys don’t cry.”
“Man up.”
“Stop acting like a girl.”

We’ve all heard it. Many of us regardless of gender have internalised it. Some are still living it. In my work as a therapist and support worker, I’ve sat in rooms with young boys, adult men, educators, clinicians, fathers, and sons. I’ve listened closely and the truth is clear: we are getting a lot wrong with our boys. But we’re also getting some things right. And both of these truths deserve space.

I previously worked in a charity dedicated to helping young people make informed choices around sexual and emotional health. Much of that work became the foundation for a lifetime of learning about how boys are socialised, supported, and sometimes stifled. Today, I work as a therapist, but also facilitate men’s mental health groups, lead workshops on race and equality, and contribute to publications and counselling events. From this broad and evolving lens, I want to explore both the harm and the hope when it comes to boyhood today.

One of the most consistent mistakes we make is how early we shut down boys’ emotional worlds. From toddlers and younger, boys receive fewer emotional cues, fewer opportunities to name sadness or express fear. By the time they reach adolescence, many are fluent in deflection and defensiveness, but emotionally illiterate when it comes to expressing vulnerability. They’re not broken. They’re conditioned.

In education settings, when boys act out or withdraw, they’re often labelled as difficult or distruptive. Rarely do we ask, what pain might this behaviour be signalling? Rather than respond with connection, we often double down on ‘control’, missing a critical opportunity to help them feel seen and heard. Masculinity remains a narrow corridor. Even today, boys are taught that to be a man means to dominate, to achieve, to suppress, to power through. There’s little room for fluidity or contradiction. And for boys who are racialised, queer, disabled, or neurodiverse, the limitations are even more pronounced. Their boyhood is often policed more harshly, their deviations from “norm” pathologised or punished. We still treat masculinity as a singular path rather than a spectrum of experiences. That rigidity hurts everyone.

When it comes to race, the conversation deepens. In my workshop Talking About Race & Equality: Exploring Difference and Diversity, I often hear how boys of colour are misread by authority figures, seen as aggressive instead of assertive, angry instead of afraid. Their masculinity is racialised early and relentlessly. They are told, in subtle and unsubtle ways, that they must be twice as good to be seen as half as safe. That pressure builds quietly. The emotional toll is immense.

Yet there is still hope. Growing up as a black British boy, my upbringing was filled with various obstacles to navigate. Born and raised in the UK, yet never really fully accepted as a native of the land. I’m from the generation when the frequent question was “Where are you really from?”

Back in 2007 a young mc (aged just 21) called Bashy heralded the next generation of Black Britons who might finally feel British. He shared a new voice of acceptance and identity. His song provided a counter reaction to the negative media portrayals and long-standing stereotypes.

Whilst constructive inroads are being made, our approach to sex education at times, continues to miss the mark. For boys, it is still too often a conversation about risk, not relationship. We teach them what not to do, but rarely what it means to be emotionally connected, to express desire with respect, or to navigate vulnerability with courage. We warn them about the consequences of sex, but we leave them underprepared for the complexity of intimacy. And then there’s the matter of support. Many university wellbeing services remain underused by male students. In the men’s focus groups I facilitated, one refrain came up again and again: “I didn’t think it was for me.” The assumption that boys will reach out when they need help overlooks how deeply shame and stigma run. They’re listening, but only if we speak in a language they recognise. They’re willing, but only if they feel safe.

Yet for all of this, I’ve also seen a shift. And it’s worth celebrating.

We are finally naming the problem. The conversation is no longer hidden in backrooms or whispered in therapy. It’s in classrooms, podcasts, workplaces, and policy discussions. There’s a rising awareness that the old version of masculinity simply doesn’t serve anyone, not boys, not men, and not the people who love them. We’re starting to ask better questions.

In some schools, emotional literacy is no longer an afterthought. Boys are being taught to notice, to name, and to navigate their feelings. I’ve watched colleagues and friends make space for emotional check-ins that lead to real connection. It’s not universal, but it’s growing. Where boys are given emotional tools, they use them.

Fathers and male carers are showing up in new ways too. I’ve met men who were never hugged by their own fathers, now proudly embracing their sons every day. Men who were taught never to apologise, now modelling emotional accountability and care. These shifts are powerful. They build generational change.

Therapy, too, is slowly losing its stigma. Younger generations of boys and men are beginning to see mental health support not as a sign of failure, but of strength. When I facilitate groups, once one boy shares his truth, the room often shifts. There’s a visible relief: Oh, I’m not the only one. That moment of recognition is transformative.

Fortunately, creative expression has often been a sanctuary and outlet for me. Many boys and young men find a voice through poetry, gaming, music, and art that allows them to explore what they can’t always say directly. When we honour those forms of communication, we meet them in a place of authenticity.

So what now?

I believe we need to scale what’s working. Pilot projects should become systemic practices. Brave individuals must become brave institutions. Most importantly, we must listen differently. Less correction, more curiosity. Less managing, more understanding. Boys are not asking to be fixed. They’re asking to be seen.

And part of seeing them is unlearning the assumptions we carry about who they are.

Letting Boys Be More

There’s this stereotype that boys are less emotional, less communicative, more aggressive. Is that true? And is it nature, nurture, or something else entirely?

It’s a question I hear often. The truth is that boys are not less emotional, they are less allowed to be emotional. From infancy, boys show just as much emotional intensity as girls, sometimes more. But socially, their expressions are discouraged. They’re told to toughen up. They learn quickly which feelings are “acceptable” and which are not. Anger, yes. Sadness, no. Confidence, yes. Confusion, no.

So when we ask whether boys are “just wired differently,” we ignore the cultural forces shaping them every day.

These messages shape how boys are educated, disciplined, and supported. When a girl cries in class, we comfort her. When a boy cries, we often rush him to stop. These micro-messages build into macro beliefs: that vulnerability is weakness, and that masculinity depends on emotional control.

We rightly celebrate girls breaking gender norms such as entering STEM fields, excelling in sports, claiming space in boardrooms. But when boys express traits seen as “feminine”, empathy, gentleness, sensitivity, then response is far more complicated. Why? Because we still devalue those traits. We still see femininity as lesser, which makes boys crossing into that space feel like a loss rather than a liberation.

Some parents even worry their sons are “too sensitive.” But perhaps the real issue is that we are perhaps demanding the wrong things of our boys. We ask them to be strong, but don't show them how to process pain. We expect resilience without the emotional tools to build it.

Can we explore different approaches?

Perhaps seeing emotional sensitivity not as a flaw, but as an asset. Let’s affirm that a boy who cries is still brave. That a boy who shares is still strong. That emotional intelligence is a survival skill and boys deserve every chance to develop it fully. Because the boys who are allowed to feel deeply become the men who can connect meaningfully, love completely, and lead with compassion.

Let’s not just rethink boyhood.
Let’s reimagine it with care, courage, and room to breathe.

For inquiries about keynote talks, workshops, or men’s wellbeing programmes, visit viibreaths

I was recently invited to an important and timely roundtable conversation about ‘Rethinking Boyhood’ which will be available shortly on Life’s Dirty Little Secrets podcast

Adolescence

My first response to the series Adolescence was one of sadness and relief. Relief, because it felt like we are finally telling the fuller story of boyhood frustrations, fears, softness, and all. Sadness, because so much of what the boys in the series spoke about, hiding emotions, fearing ridicule, not knowing what “normal” looks like is so familiar. Nothing was wildly surprising, but that’s what was most heartbreaking, that so many boys feel the same isolation and confusion across cultures and classes. What felt most honest was the discomfort they expressed around intimacy and consent. We haven’t given boys safe scripts or spaces to practice these skills before.

Adolescence explored peer pressure and consent with care. The segments on porn and body image showed boys being candid without making them seem like they were to blame for an entire culture of unrealistic expectations. However, at times it did feel like an adult lens perhaps protecting viewers from hearing just how pervasive and normalised some of these pressures actually are, especially around peer pressure. The silence or deflection from some of the boys was as telling as what they did say. This tension is the “narrow corridor of masculinity” that so many boys feel they must stay inside.

Boys deserve the space to feel, to be messy, to stumble and grow without being policed for every softness or vulnerability they show. Adolescence gets partway there by putting boys’ real voices on screen. This kind of honesty cannot happen in a vacuum, it depends on all of us modelling more spacious, more nurturing ways of being.

Hard Conversations

There’s a phrase that’s gained traction in recent years “The boy crisis”. I hear it mentioned in the media, in parent groups, in anxious tones at university conferences. It comes up whenever people speak about boys underachieving academically, struggling emotionally, or socially withdrawing. And the question is always the same: Are we witnessing a crisis?

The answer isn’t simple.

Yes, boys are falling behind in some areas. Across many countries, they are more likely to be excluded from school, more likely to underperform in reading and writing, more likely to die by suicide. Fewer young men are enrolling in higher education compared to young women. But this isn’t just a crisis of boys, it’s a crisis of systems. And systems, by nature, are complex.

The conversation too often swings between blame and panic. Either boys are the problem, entitled, fragile, emotionally stunted, or they are the victims of a world that no longer values them. Neither of these extremes gets to the heart of the issue. What we need is less drama, more honesty. Less fear-mongering, more curiosity.

Because underneath all this is something real: a growing group of boys and young men who feel lost, disconnected, and unsure of who they are supposed to become.

And some of them are turning to places we’re not looking.

The Digital Underground

In my work, I’ve come across boys who’ve stumbled into online echo chambers that feed their loneliness with resentment. These forums often start as places to vent frustration about rejection or isolation, but they can quickly become breeding grounds for misogyny, nihilism, and radicalisation. The language becomes darker. The worldview, more paranoid. “Women don’t want nice guys.” “The system is rigged.” “There’s no point trying.”

This isn’t just digital noise. For some boys, especially those who are already isolated, these spaces offer the first time they feel understood. That’s the danger. They’re not just hearing toxicity, they’re belonging to it.

We need to stop pretending this is fringe behaviour. We also need to stop shaming boys for falling into it. Shame won’t bring them back. Instead, we need to create spaces offline and online where boys can express pain without having it weaponised. Where their need for connection is met with care, not cynicism.

Who Are the Role Models?

People often ask me, “Where are the role models for our boys?”

It’s a fair question. We are in a cultural moment where many of our most visible male figures, politicians, celebrities, influencers are rewarded for arrogance, not empathy. We’re saturated with examples of dominance over dialogue, charisma over character. And for boys looking up, it can be confusing. Who do I emulate? What does success look like for someone like me?

Some boys find solace in athletes or entrepreneurs. Others turn to YouTubers and Twitch streamers. Some just see the loudest man in the room and assume: That’s what I need to be.

We need to model better. Not perfect men, but reflective ones. Men who say, “I got it wrong.” Men who are willing to be questioned, challenged, and still show up. Role models aren’t always the loudest, they’re the ones who live their values, even when no one is watching.

Let’s also think about broadening what “role model” means. Boys need to see strength in vulnerability, leadership in listening, and courage in accountability. Maybe that’s how we can redefine aspiration.

The term ‘Toxic Masculinity’ has become a lightning rod. For some, it’s a powerful shorthand for the behaviours and beliefs that harm men and those around them: aggression, emotional repression, dominance-at-all-costs. For others, it feels like an attack on all masculinity, a shame-laced label that leaves boys defensive or dismissed before they even understand the conversation.

So is the term useful?

It depends how we use it.

If “toxic masculinity” is a tool for exploring how some norms hurt everyone including men then yes, it can be constructive. But if it becomes a catch-all insult, a way of writing off boys and men wholesale, it loses power and meaning.

We need to distinguish between masculinity and the rigid version of it that harms more than it helps. Anger isn’t toxic. Neither is ambition or confidence or competition. What becomes toxic is when those traits are disconnected from empathy, when they’re weaponised, when they’re the only tools we offer.

Boys don’t need to be shamed out of being boys. They need to be invited into fuller, more flexible versions of themselves.

So where does this leave us?

In a moment of deep reckoning and rare opportunity. We can’t protect boys from every negative influence, but we can equip them to question it. We can’t guarantee perfect role models, but we can model reflection and repair. We can’t eliminate pain, but we can stop pretending it’s weakness.

There’s nothing soft about raising emotionally healthy boys. It’s bold work. Brave work.

Let’s keep doing it.

When the night has come
And the land is dark
And the moon is the only light we'll see
No, I won't be afraid
Oh, I won't be afraid
Just as long as you stand
Stand by me