“The body remembers what the mind forgets.” — Bessel van der Kolk.
For years, men have been told, “It’s good to talk.” And for many, including myself, talking has been a lifeline. But what if words are not always enough? What if true healing lies in something deeper, something unspoken? I have seen this truth in my own life and with other men: traditional talk therapy, while valuable, often misses the deeper currents of healing—the places the body remembers, even when the mind cannot.
The Weight of Unspoken Things
I still remember the first time I sat in a circle with other men. It was after my divorce, ending a 33-year marriage, and I was searching for connection and support. As the talking stick edged closer, panic rose in me. What would I say? Memories from my religious upbringing flooded back—confessing sins, rehearing my relationship with Jesus. Despite the talk about “creating a safe space,” I felt anything but safe. My chest felt tight, my throat closed. When my turn came, I muttered a few words about work stress before deflecting with a joke. Everyone nodded knowingly. We’d all been there.
Talking Helps, But Only So Much
Since then, I’ve facilitated men’s groups, attended therapy, and held space for men drowning in shame and grief. I’ve watched the profound relief that washes over a man’s face when he finally says the thing he’s been carrying alone for years. Talking can be a lifeline—I’ve seen it save lives.
But I’ve also seen its limits.
I’ve watched men talk themselves in circles, recounting betrayals or losses week after week, leaving each session with the same weight on their shoulders, the same shallow breath. I know that feeling myself: that gap between what I could say and what I felt, between the story I could tell and the truth living in my bones.
If talking were all we needed, wouldn’t we be healed by now?
How We Got Here
Growing up in the 1970s and 1980s, I learned the rules early: boys don’t cry, real men don’t complain, and feelings are for women. At eleven, my father told me I was too old to hug; from then on, we shook hands, a stiff ritual that replaced warmth with formality. I learned to read his moods by watching his eyes and the tension in his face. To keep my distance when silence hung in the air.
By my twenties, I was a walking contradiction—desperate to connect but terrified of vulnerability. Lonely but convinced that needing others was weakness. I wasn’t alone.
Then the culture shifted. “It’s okay to talk” became the new rallying cry. Therapy lost some of its stigma, men’s groups grew, and these changes have saved lives by challenging old norms.
But somewhere along the way, talking became the only acceptable path to healing. The pendulum swung from “real men don’t talk” to “if you’re not talking, you’re not healing.” Silence, once a badge of honour, became another sign of failure.
Why the Mind Keeps Circling
What I have learned is that trauma does not live in our stories. It lives in our bodies: in the hunched shoulders, shallow breaths, and constant tension we forget is even there. When we only talk about pain, we try to think our way out of something lodged in our bodies.
I spent years in therapy being able to explain why I felt hypervigilant, where my shame began, and how my childhood shaped my relationship patterns. I could analyse myself with precision, yet still felt like I was performing even with those closest to me. Busyness kept me distracted when what I needed was to stop talking and come home to my body.
The stories we tell about ourselves matter, but they can become prisons. I have met men who, like me, are fluent in the language of suffering, who can articulate their wounds with impressive clarity but seem stuck in them. “I’m the black sheep,” they’ll say, or “Women always leave me,” or “I’m just not good at relationships.” Stories that began as truth can harden into identity.
When Words Heal
Talking can be transformative – but only under the right conditions. In my experience, words help men heal when:
- Safety is fundamental. Not just “no judgement” slogans, but trust built over time – the kind where you can say the ugly thing and still be welcome. Only then can sharing move from role-play to authenticity.
- The body is included. When we notice breath, posture, and sensation while we talk, something shifts. Words become embodied instead of just intellectual.
- There is no pressure to perform. The minute a man feels like he has to “open up,” he is performing again. Healing happens in an invitation, not an obligation. The Men’s Group I attended wanted to create a space where healing was invited, but the group dynamics created a pressure that made me feel like I had to perform.
- The story can change. Not just retelling the same wounds, but discovering new chapters, finding strength in old struggles, and rewriting the ending. Narrative therapists remind us that healing requires us to re-author our stories, to question and reframe what has been handed down. Often, this work is slow, silent, and deeply embodied
Honouring the Diversity of Men’s Intelligences
The focus on talking as the cure often overlooks the diversity of “intelligences” men bring to healing. Howard Gardner described linguistic, bodily, logical, spatial, musical, and naturalistic intelligence. Not all men are verbal processors—this is not a flaw.
- The logical or mathematical man might analyse, calculate, or find patterns in his pain. Overthinking may be a way to feel safe.
- The bodily-kinesthetic man might process grief or joy through surfing, running, or working with his hands.
- The naturalistic man draws meaning from seasons, land, or animals, feeling grief as autumn, or renewal as spring.
- The musical or visual-spatial man might express the most profound emotion in melody or image, not words.
When therapy or support spaces only value talking, these other modes are easily misunderstood. A silent man is not necessarily “shut down”; he may simply be healing in his language.
The Other Languages of Healing
Though words are my strength, I have often relied on movement to bypass my mind. For years, I swam laps—following the black line, breath after breath, until my thoughts quieted and deeper awareness surfaced. On long bushwalks, it was usually the third or fourth day—after hours of trudging, my mind worked out, my defenses stripped away by the weight of my pack—when healing arrived silently, like a rising tide.
Men heal in many languages:
Men heal in many languages:
Through Movement
Yoga, martial arts, or conscious breathwork help regulate the nervous system and release old tension. Through constant movement and repetition, our bodies remember power, not just hypervigilance.
Through Creating
Poetry, music, art, and storytelling can bypass logic and touch the heart. Many men find it easier to express grief or longing through song, drawing, or movement.
Through Silence
Sometimes the most healing thing I can offer another man is to sit with him without trying to fix anything. Just presence.
Through Mentoring
The power of being witnessed without judgement or advice—a steady companion—can offer more than words ever could.
Coming Home to Ourselves
This isn’t about rejecting talk therapy or men’s groups. It’s about broadening our understanding of healing. The man processing divorce through woodworking isn’t emotionally unavailable—he’s doing the work in his language. The man finding peace fishing isn’t avoiding feelings—he’s connecting with them in his way.
I’ve learned that healing isn’t about saying the right words or having the perfect insight. It’s about coming home to ourselves—in our bodies, in our breath, in the full spectrum of who we are. Sometimes that happens in conversation. Sometimes it happens in silence. Sometimes it happens in the space between words, in the pause before we speak, in the deep exhale that says more than we ever could.
To every man reading: your way of healing is valid. Don’t let anyone dictate the “right” path.
And if you love or support men who are struggling, meet them where they are. Offer presence without agenda, witness without judgment, and space without expectation.
True healing isn’t about performing recovery or saying the right words. It’s about becoming whole—in your way, in your own time, in your own deep and necessary language.
The path home is different for every man. Whether it is the rhythm of your feet on a bush trail, sitting by a creek listening to the sound of the water, or the silent nod of another man who understands, honour the language that leads you there.
