Category Archives: Raising Sensitive Men

Raising Sensitive Men-The Turkey is Dead

Dear Romeo,

The week of Thanksgiving, you and your sisters spent almost an hour assembling a gingerbread turkey from a kit I got at the grocery store. The three of you had so much fun in the process with lots of giggles and candy stealing. Melody called me in to inspect your work when it was finished. We took pictures of you 3 with your creation and cleaned up the mess. You guys wanted to eat it right away, but I asked if we could wait until after Thanksgiving so the turkey could be a decoration. You reluctantly agreed, but no sooner had we positioned the turkey on its decorative perch than he began to list badly to the front of the box.

Me: “Okay, you guys. If he falls over I guess you can eat him.”

All of you: *loud cheering*

About 20 minutes later, the turkey was dead and the scavenging began, each of you claiming slightly larger than a cookie sized piece of fallen gingerbread turkey. The girls ate a bit and then threw pieces away, declaring the gingerbread bitter. You ate a few bites slowly, then I noticed you sitting with your piece of gingerbread in hand, looking at it sadly. “I don’t want anymore,” you said. I suggested you throw the rest away, but this suggestion agitated you and so I asked if you’d prefer to set your piece on the counter for later and you agreed. After you’d put it down, you came crashing into me for a fierce hug. When you pulled back, I noticed the tears welling in your eyes.

”What’s wrong, buddy?” I asked as I hugged you again.

”I’m sad that the turkey isn’t a turkey anymore,” you said in a choking voice. You clearly were trying NOT to cry. “It’s ok that you’re sad the turkey broke. You can cry if you need to.” And you did need to. You crawled into my lap and held on tight, grieving the dead gingerbread turkey that had brought so much joy a little while before. You cried hard for a little over a minute, then snuggled into my arm to watch a Christmas movie. 15-20 minutes passed, and you looked up into my face and said, “I don’t feel sad at all anymore, Momma.”  And as I leaned my face against your soft blonde hair, I thought about how thankful I am for all we’re learning together about emotions and grieving and letting ourselves feel, even when it might seem silly. Even when it’s over something small. I love you, my little tender-heart. Thank you for trusting me to be your safe place.




Raising Sensitive Men-Creating Space For The Storm

Dear Romeo,

This morning we weathered a storm together. I’m still learning what that should look like. To help you make it through an emotional storm in the healthiest way possible. My instincts are not reliable here, because a part of me still views anger and sadness as frightening. The enemy. Something to be avoided and controlled and stuffed in favor of the brighter emotions. When you become angry or sad, my knee-jerk reaction is to stop the noise. Squelch the discomfort. Redirect the energy. This does not work well with you, my love. And for this I am actually grateful. Because it forces me to search out a better way.

This morning, it was time to do our math routines for school. I asked you and Jubilee to stand up and get ready. You lay down in the floor instead, giggling. It was your turn to choose the counting pattern/physical activity. I asked you a second time to stand up so we could get started and you told me no. So instead of you getting to choose first, I asked Jubilee to choose. She chose counting by 10’s and running around the kitchen island. You jumped up and joined in, but halfway through you slowed down and an angry shadow crossed your face. When her chosen activity was done, I asked you to choose. You stomped your feet and growled at me. “It was my turn to choose first!!!” you cried indignantly. “That’s true. But I asked you twice to get up so we could get started and you told me no. That’s okay, but we needed to move on with our school work, so I let Jubilee choose first.” Angry tears began to fall from your eyes. And because I’m still coming to terms with making space for anger and sadness, I first tried to cajole you to snap out of it. I told you that if you couldn’t shake it off and participate, you would need to go to your room. You cried harder. I told you I would count to five and if you couldn’t stand up and choose your activity, Jubilee would choose and we would move on. You took a deep breath and chose your activity, but as the two of you went through the motions, it was clear to me that the joy of it was gone for you. For the next 20 minutes, every school attempt I suggested was met with angry resistance, tears and foot stomping. Every fiber of my being wanted to shout at you to STOP being so obstinate. To go to your room so I didn’t have to watch. To DRY IT UP so we could get on with our day.

But you, my darling boy, simply could not pull it together. And as I looked into your eyes, I saw beyond the stomping feet and the red face into your soul, where an immense sadness and grief was swirling and raging. And I internally stepped past my hang-ups and need for control and asked you to come to me.

I saw the battle raging in your heart and mind. A part of you wanted nothing more than to collapse into my arms, but another part of you didn’t trust me. I had just been angry with you for being sad and tried to talk you out of your feelings by declaring that we had no time for them. I saw you drawn by my invitation while simultaneously fighting the urge to run away from me. So I didn’t push. I simply opened my arms. Told you I could see how sad you were. Asked if you wanted me to hold you for a while.

And so we paused in our all important schedule. We stopped the work of learning and moving forward. Your little body crashed into my bigger one and you let the floodgates open. You sobbed and you railed about how it wasn’t fair that you didn’t get to go first. How it was your turn. My own sense of justice wanted to remind you that you missed your turn because you chose not to obey me. But in that moment, I realized that in the midst of a grief storm, you can’t hear my reasoning. You simply need to ride the wave until you wash up on the shore, spent and calmer. So I held you as you cried. I reflected your words. “It doesn’t feel fair. You didn’t get to go first. You really wanted to go first. Now you won’t get to go first until next time. You’re sad and angry because Jubilee got to go first instead. I’m sorry, buddy.”

You continued to cry and moan for what seemed like forever. As I felt impatience begin to rise in myself, I chose deep breaths. I chose to picture my own warmth and the peace in my heart oozing into your body as it pressed against my own. And slowly you began to calm and relax. You were quiet, but you didn’t let go of me. I asked if you wanted to get back to school, but you grabbed on tighter, squeezed your eyes shut and shook your head no. So we sat in silence for probably 10 more minutes just rocking and me rubbing your back. When you were spent, you slowly stepped down and sat back in your own chair, smiled at me and asked what to do on your worksheet. You were back to “normal.” And we finished our work without further angst.

I will admit that I am learning as I go. But what I learned from you this morning is priceless to me.

1. When the storm of emotion hits, the trigger doesn’t matter. Reason is useless in that moment. And I waste a lot of time trying to convince you that you have nothing to be upset about because you caused the injustice by your actions. It’s like arguing that a driver should have made different choices before a crash while standing beside his burning car as he screams for help from amongst the flames. My admonitions and arguments are irrelevant.

2. My feelings that we have no time to deal with your storm are not rational. Because if we don’t stop and take the time, all attempts at productive activity until we do will be wasted. Something that normally takes us 5 minutes to complete will take 30, and we will both be constantly frustrated in the effort. I can either choose to spend the time to work through your feelings with you, or choose to waste time ignoring them. Time passes either way.

3. You may have mixed emotions because you sense my discomfort with anger. It is my job to make myself available and allow you to move through however you feel most comfortable. It is my job to create the space you need to feel what you need to feel.

Thank you for deciding to trust me with your sadness and anger today. Thank you for teaching me how to be uncomfortable for a cause. Because as I learn to create space for your feelings, I also learn to hold space for my own. I don’t want to toughen you up and teach you to stuff it. Our world will try to teach you that just by your living in it. I want to teach you to stop and be angry. To stop and be sad. To ride out the storm to the other side and to learn any lessons after you’ve moved through the hurt. I’m so thankful that God chose me to mother a sensitive and tenderhearted little boy like you. I’m sorry I’m not a faster learner. But my messy attempts at doing better are heartfelt, I promise. And you, my sweet little man, are so worth it.





Raising Sensitive Men-A Series

With all the violence and ugliness in our society right now, primarily at the hands of white males, I find myself wondering about the way we are raising our boys. Historically, at least in my family lineage, boys have been raised to be tough. To shake it off. To dry it up. To “rub some dirt on it.” This philosophy teaches our boys, at the youngest ages, that crying, or admitting to hurt or sadness, is inappropriate and not “manly.” This is not a healthy view of emotions.

I am not a psychologist, but I know from my own experience that when I stuff my emotions, especially intense sadness, it leads to things like overwhelming anxiety, or misplaced anger. Even as a woman, a part of me is uncomfortable with emotion. And our society as a whole is even more uncomfortable with the expression of emotion in men. Little boys are not encouraged to explore or hold space for their feelings. Feelings are messy and uncomfortable and inconvenient, which leads to a desire to minimize or ignore them. Unfortunately, they don’t just go away. They morph into things like violent tendencies, dehumanization of other people, and lack of ability to hold intimacy with friends and spouses. Entire generations of men have been taught to shut down their emotional processing and channel their strong feelings into accepted activities like contact sports, hunting and violent video games.

I won’t pretend to have the answers to this problem, but I have a deep conviction that the main way I can make a difference and move toward change in this generation is to raise my own son to be different. I want him to be comfortable with having and expressing his emotions. He is a tenderhearted and sensitive little boy, which leads to him getting his feelings hurt rather often. He doesn’t tolerate meanness well from other boys. He grieves little losses deeply and sometimes inconveniently. But as his mother, I am determined to teach him to allow himself to feel. To create and hold space for the full range of his emotions. And to work with him on how to move THROUGH things rather than pretending like nothing is wrong.

I’ve heard all the arguments about how boys won’t survive unless they toughen up. How learning how to “take it on the chin” is necessary. How being sensitive and being able to cry will get him labeled a wimp. I disagree, and frankly I don’t care what the world thinks. My definition of strength and courage is not to be cold and distant. It is to learn how to hold fear and sadness and anger and still move forward in function. The world has plenty of assholes. I am not interested in teaching him how to be one. I would prefer that my son be seen as weak in the eyes of some, so that he may learn to possess true strength. I want to raise him to be a tender and loving husband. A father who can sit with his crying child until the storm passes. A friend who sticks closer than a brother.

I want to catalog all I’m learning in this process of raising a sensitive boy. So I’ve decided to write him letters as I learn, posting them in this series entitled, “Raising Sensitive Men.” Every lesson may not resonate with every person, but this is a way for me to process what I’m learning while sharing with others who may be on the same journey. Let’s raise a generation of men with higher emotional IQ’s that they don’t have to work for. Because they’re worth the extra effort on our part, and the world needs more kindness.