- “Family comes first”
- “My wife, my world”
- “Children are the future”
- “Blood is thicker than water”
- “A father’s duty is never done”
- “Happy family, happy life”
- “A man provides, a man protects”
- “Keep the peace at home”
- “Do it for the kids”
- “Boys don’t cry”
- “Man up”
- “Do your duty”
- “Put others before yourself”
- “Take one for the team”
- “No pain, no gain”
- “Endure and overcome”
- “Keep your head down”
- “Work hard, stay quiet”
- “Sacrifice now, enjoy later”
- “Good boys don’t complain”
- “Be strong, don’t show weakness”
- “Obey and you’ll be loved”
- “If you love them, you’ll do it”
- “No one remembers what you say, only what you do”
- “Love is earned, not given”
- “Do right, even when it hurts”
I read an article in the I newspaper titled “ Menopause made me leave my husband – here’s what I wish I’d known” Story by Kasia Delgado. And I thought to myself, are we saying that there are psychological and biological developmental changes that can make a woman act in ways that do not seem consistent with how she has been over a span of some 30-4o years? I wondered if men also have something similiar. And they do, some men have what is reffered to as a mid life crisis.
The phrases I wrote at the start sound good. They sound moral. They sound like the words of a decent man. But for some men, these ideas don’t lead to love or connection. They lead to disappearance. Over the last year, I’ve had a number of men sit across from me in the therapy room who all share something painful in common. These are not selfish men. These are not lazy men. These are not men who avoided responsibility. These are men who gave everything.
They gave their time. They gave their energy. They gave their youth. They gave their money. They gave their emotional strength. And somewhere along the way, they gave up themselves. By the time they reach their forties or mid-forties, many of them realise something frightening. They have no real sense of who they are outside of what they provide. They don’t know what they want. They don’t know what they enjoy. They don’t know what they would choose if no one else was watching or needing something from them. Their lives have become a long list of obligations, and almost none of them were chosen freely.
Most of these men were raised to believe that a good man is a self-sacrificing man. They were taught, directly or indirectly, that their needs come last. That wanting too much is selfish. That saying no is dangerous. That keeping the peace matters more than telling the truth. Many of them learned early on that love was conditional. Love arrived when they were helpful, compliant, responsible, or quiet. Love disappeared when they complained, needed reassurance, or expressed anger or desire. So they adapted. They learned to be useful instead of real. As boys, they were praised for being “good.” As men, they became invisible.
These men often grow into husbands who don’t argue, fathers who don’t rest, and partners who don’t ask for much. From the outside, they look solid. Reliable. Dependable. People say, “He’s a good man. He does everything for his family.”
What no one sees is the cost. Inside, these men are exhausted. Not just physically, but emotionally and spiritually. They carry a quiet resentment they don’t feel allowed to name. They feel guilty for wanting anything more than what they already have. They feel ashamed for feeling empty when, on paper, their lives look “successful.” Many of them don’t even realise they are angry. The anger has been buried so deeply it shows up as numbness, withdrawal, depression, or a sudden collapse later in life.
When these men finally arrive in therapy, they often say something like, “I don’t know what’s wrong. I’ve done everything I was supposed to do.” And that sentence tells the whole story. They lived their lives according to rules they didn’t write. Their sense of worth became tied to how much they could endure. Their identity became built around sacrifice. And because they never learned to develop boundaries, agency, or personal desire, they slowly lost touch with themselves.
The frightening question that eventually surfaces is this: “If I stop giving, what’s left of me?” For many men, the answer feels like “nothing.” And that realisation is terrifying. This is often the point where things begin to fall apart. Some men withdraw emotionally. Some become irritable or cold. Some have affairs. Some turn to alcohol, gambling, porn, or work. Some disappear from their families entirely, not because they don’t love them, but because they don’t know how to exist without sacrificing themselves.
And when they finally break, they are often judged harshly. People say they are ungrateful. Weak. Going through a midlife crisis. What no one acknowledges is that these men were never allowed to build a self in the first place. They were trained to serve, not to choose.
The work for these men is not about becoming selfish. It is about becoming whole. It is about learning that having needs does not make them bad. That wanting does not make them dangerous. That boundaries are not betrayals. It is slow, uncomfortable work. Choosing yourself after a lifetime of self-abandonment feels wrong at first. It brings guilt. It brings fear. It can feel like you are letting people down, even when you are simply being honest for the first time.
In many ways, it feels like a death. The death of the good boy. The dependable one. The man who never asks for anything. But on the other side of that death is something these men have never known: agency. Choice. A sense of authorship over their own lives. Only then can they become present partners, grounded fathers, and men who give not because they have to, but because they choose to. And that kind of giving doesn’t empty a man. It comes from somewhere real.
The So-Called Midlife Crisis
People love to laugh at men going through a midlife crisis. It’s one of the last socially acceptable jokes. The image is familiar: the sports car, the younger partner, the sudden personality change. The punchline is always the same. He’s lost the plot. He’s selfish. He’s having a crisis.
But if you actually sit with men at this stage of life, it becomes clear very quickly that this isn’t a joke at all. For many men, what gets labelled a “midlife crisis” is not a breakdown. It is a reckoning. These men did what they were supposed to do. They followed the plan. They worked hard, provided, committed, stayed, sacrificed, and endured. They didn’t drift. They didn’t disappear. They didn’t opt out. They built a life that looked right from the outside.
And then, somewhere in their thirties or forties, something shifts. It’s often quiet at first. A sense of restlessness. A low hum of dissatisfaction that doesn’t go away. A feeling that life is happening, but they’re not quite in it. They begin to look back, not nostalgically, but critically. They start reviewing their life like someone realising they got on the wrong train years ago. The scenery doesn’t match the destination they imagined. The house they built doesn’t feel like home. The role they play no longer fits the person they’ve become.
This moment is often the first time these men have ever truly met themselves. For many of them, this is not a regression into adolescence. It is the delayed arrival of adulthood. A coming of age that never happened when it should have. In their younger years, these men didn’t have the space to explore who they were. They were busy being responsible, being needed, being useful. Desire was postponed. Curiosity was shelved. Doubt was swallowed. Life was about doing what made sense, not what felt true.
The questions they didn’t ask in their twenties didn’t disappear. They waited. And when they arrive in midlife, they arrive with force. Questions like: Is this actually what I want? Who am I outside of what I provide? If I had a choice, would I choose this life again? These are not shallow questions. They are existential ones. And they destabilise everything.
On my university counselling research group, I’ve listened to female research peers speak about menopause with increasing clarity and compassion. It is rightly framed as a natural biological and psychological transition. A stage of life that brings grief, anger, confusion, identity shifts, and profound change. We talk about stigma. We talk about misunderstanding. We talk about the need for support.
And yet, when men enter their own life-stage transition, we mock them. We don’t ask what’s changing inside them. We don’t ask what they’re grieving. We don’t ask what has been suppressed for decades. We simply judge the visible fallout and call it a crisis.
What’s often happening underneath is an awakening. These men have matured. They’ve developed self-awareness. They’ve realised that living entirely for others has cost them their inner life. And for the first time, they are asking what they want, not what is expected of them. That question alone is threatening to the systems they’re embedded in. Families, relationships, and societies often rely on men not questioning their role. A man who wakes up stops being predictable. He may no longer accept silent agreements he never consciously made. He may no longer be willing to sacrifice himself without limit.
So instead of support, he is shamed.
He’s told he’s selfish.
He’s told he’s ungrateful.
He’s told he’s ruining everything.
No one asks whether the life he is standing in was ever fully his. Without support, many men act this stage out rather than work it through. The affair, the sudden exit, the reckless behaviour — these are not the crisis itself. They are expressions of confusion from men who have no language for what they’re experiencing and no safe place to explore it.
A midlife crisis, properly understood, is not a failure of character. It is developmental growth arriving late. It is the painful birth of agency in a man who was trained to suppress it. It is the moment he realises he is more than a role, more than a function, more than a provider. Like all births, it is disruptive. It threatens existing structures. It brings fear, grief, and anger alongside possibility.
The question is not how to stop men from having midlife crises. The question is how to support men through this stage without forcing them to destroy their lives in order to grow. Because men don’t need ridicule at midlife. They need understanding. They need language. They need permission to become whole. And until we are willing to see this stage as a natural human transition rather than a joke, men will continue to suffer in silence or explode in ways that harm everyone, including themselves.
Why Therapy Matters at This Stage of a Man’s Life
So why am I saying all of this? I’m saying it because this stage of a man’s life is one of the few moments where therapy can be genuinely life-changing, not just supportive or reflective, but foundational. For a man in this period of awakening, therapy can become the place where he finally stops reacting to life and starts consciously choosing it.
Many men arrive at this point disoriented. They know something isn’t right, but they don’t yet have the language to explain it. They feel restless, trapped, numb, or exhausted. They may feel guilty for feeling this way. On paper, their life looks fine. Inside, it feels wrong.
Therapy offers a space where a man can begin asking questions he has never been allowed to ask before. What do I actually want? Where am I going? What chapter of my life am I in now? And what foundations do I need to build for the next one? For many men, this is the first time they have ever thought beyond survival, responsibility, or expectation. They are not just looking at the next year, but the next ten, twenty, or thirty years of their life. Sometimes they are even thinking about who they want to be in old age, or what kind of man they want to be remembered as. That kind of reflection is not indulgent. It is necessary.
The truth is, some men at this stage have to radically restructure their lives. Not because they are reckless, but because the life they are living is built on foundations that were never examined. For some men, this means facing the possibility that their marriage cannot survive who they are becoming. That is deeply painful. For families and partners, it can feel like betrayal. But sometimes the marriage was built around a version of the man who no longer exists, or never truly existed in the first place.
For other men, it means walking away from a high-paying, respected, and safe career. A job that looks impressive, but slowly drains the life out of them. Leaving that behind can feel terrifying, especially for men who were taught that their value comes from provision and stability. Some men realise they need to set boundaries with siblings, parents, or extended family. This can be one of the hardest shifts of all. For men raised to prioritise loyalty and sacrifice, choosing distance or redefining relationships can feel like disloyalty, even when it is necessary for survival.
Others discover that they need to completely rethink concepts they assumed they understood. Love. Duty. Responsibility. Boundaries. What it means to be a good man. Therapy is the place where these ideas can be taken apart and examined honestly, without judgement or pressure to perform.
One of the most painful realisations many men have at this stage is the price they are currently paying for the life they are living. Some men are physically and emotionally exhausted, not because anyone has done something wrong, but because they have been running on empty for decades. They have given without pause, without reflection, without checking the cost.
And sometimes, that cost shows up most painfully in their relationship with their children. Many men are present but not connected. They live in the same house.
They pay the bills. They attend parents’ evenings. They go to football matches or school events. But if they are honest, they don’t really know their child. They don’t know what their child enjoys. They don’t know what scares them. They don’t know how their child thinks. They don’t know how to have a real conversation with them. They might take their son to football every weekend, yet have no idea what their son actually likes, dislikes, or dreams about. They are physically there, but emotionally absent, often without realising it. This is not because they don’t care. It’s because they were never shown how.
Many of these men did not grow up with emotional connection themselves. No one asked them how they felt. No one sat with them in curiosity. No one modelled how to talk about emotions, fears, or inner life. So they repeat what they know: provision, structure, presence without intimacy. Therapy becomes a place where this can finally be learned.
One of the most powerful tools therapy offers is the chance to practice in safety. In therapy, a man can role-play conversations he has never had. He can practice listening without fixing. Speaking without defending. Showing interest without fear of getting it wrong. He can rehearse how to talk to his child. How to set boundaries without exploding. How to express desire without shame. How to say no without collapsing into guilt.
These are not skills men should be expected to magically have. They are learned behaviours. And therapy is one of the few places where men can learn them without being punished for trying. This stage of life is not about tearing everything down for the sake of it. It is about building consciously for the first time.
Therapy helps a man slow down enough to ask: What am I building now? And what am I willing to stop building? When done well, therapy doesn’t push a man to leave his marriage, quit his job, or cut off his family. It helps him see clearly what is sustainable, what is honest, and what is slowly killing him. This is why laughing at men in this stage is so damaging. Because this period is not madness. It is maturation. And without support, men either suppress it again or act it out in destructive ways. With support, it can become the most meaningful chapter of their life. Not the end.
But the beginning of something truer.
Cassim