I’m not a man, yet every man I’ve known has shaped my world one way or the other. I was raised by one. Loved by one. Supported by one. Guided by one. From the father who quietly carried burdens, to the uncle whose strength was soft compassion, to the manager who led and the countless male colleagues alongside whom I’ve worked and woven a shared purpose. Each has deepened my commitment to honouring men’s mental well-being.
June marks Men’s Mental Health Month globally, and it lands close to my heart.
Because behind the men we love, admire, and lean on, are human beings who have for too long been expected to suppress their pain, shrink their feelings, and carry the world without asking for help.
I practically grew up with my dad. I’ve seen him at his lowest, at his messiest and his greatest yet I never flinched once. If anything, I leaned in closer. I admired, and still admire, his vulnerability. He soared on it.
There was a certain dignity in how he allowed himself to feel deeply, to be imperfect and real, without ever letting that diminish his strength. Watching him gave me a language for love that includes honesty, not just protection. It taught me that masculinity and emotional expression are not opposites, they are allies. South Africa is in crisis.
Our country ranks among the top ten globally in suicide rates, with approximately 23,5 deaths per 100 000 people annually. In 2023 alone, 13 774 people died by suicide. Of these, 10 861 were men, nearly 80%. That means four out of every five people who take their own lives in South Africa are men.
The male suicide rate stands at an alarming 37,6 per 100 000 people, compared to 9,8 for women. These are not just numbers, they are brothers, fathers, uncles, sons, partners, colleagues and friends.
Yet, despite the magnitude of this crisis, men’s mental health remains a whispered subject, one often treated with discomfort, judgment, or outright neglect. We cannot begin to address what we refuse to see. I believe there are many reasons why men suffer in silence.
From boyhood, many are taught to “man up,” “indoda ayikhali” to show no weakness and wear resilience like armour even when they are breaking inside.
The pressures to perform, to provide, to protect, all while suppressing vulnerability are relentless. In a country where the youth unemployment rate hovers at 62% among those aged 15–24, many young men carry a crushing sense of failure before they’ve had a fair chance to begin.
Others bottle up the pain of trauma, poverty, or unprocessed grief, only to express it later through anger, violence, or self-destruction. Because they are rarely taught the language of emotional literacy. We see the consequences not only in suicide statistics, but also in spirals of gender-based violence, substance abuse, and fractured families – these are not excuses but realities unspoken. When men are wounded and given no tools to heal, that pain does not stay contained; it ripples outward, hurting everyone. And so I return to the men in my life. I see you. I see the cost of carrying everything, of being expected to never fall. I see the tears you never let fall in front of us. I see the battles you fight in the quiet of your mind, the dreams you put aside to be what the world told you a “real man” must be.
It is time we build a society where men can be fully human, where they are not defined by how much they earn or how well they perform, but by how deeply they feel, connect, heal, and grow. We need homes, churches, schools, and workplaces where emotional honesty is normalised.
Where fathers are not just expected to provide, but are supported when they need to be held too.
This month is not only a time to remember the pain so many men carry, it is also a time to change the culture that keeps them silent. Conversations about gender must include them.
When we speak of gender-based violence, mental illness, poverty, or trauma, we must recognise that men are not just perpetrators or providers. They are people. They are participants in the human experience. They matter. We cannot have true gender equity if it favours one gender while forgetting the other. Empowering women does not require the neglect of men. In fact, healing men is part of healing families, communities, and generations. To the men we know and love you are not alone. You are allowed to be vulnerable. You are allowed to be unsure. You are allowed to cry.
You are allowed to speak. And more than anything, you are allowed to heal. To my gal pals – mothers, sisters, daughters, partners, friends, let us not wait until tragedy forces us to pay attention. Let us build a culture of care now. Let us open our hearts and homes.
Let us be the first to listen without judgment, to soften the space, to honour the humanity of the men who have always tried to carry us.
