By 
Written by EL Tehut-9 (@tehut9)
We are men—
but not the kind
they write in fairy tales
or frame in flattering phrases.
We are the forgotten figures,
the fathers and fighters,
the feelers forced into silence.
We carry wounds
woven into our words,
but we’ve been trained
to wear armor over our aching.
Brothers… let’s talk.
Not surface-level sentences,
not hollow handshakes
and locker-room laughter.
Let’s talk about the truth.
Let’s talk about what it feels like
to sleep in the same house
with a woman
who no longer sees you.
Not because you disappeared—
but because she stopped looking.
To eat dinner at a table
where your presence
is as invisible
as your pain.
To sleep in separate rooms
and call it peace—
but it’s really prison.
To reach out for touch
and be told, “I’m tired.”
“I’m not in the mood.”
“You’re not who I want anymore.”
To feel like furniture.
Like a paycheck with a pulse.
Like a man misplaced
in the very life he built.
We are husbands
who hug hollow air.
We are lovers
locked out of the love
we once lit with passion and prayer.
No intimacy.
No tenderness.
Just tasks.
Just timelines.
Just two bodies
walking around each other
like forgotten ghosts
in a house that once held heaven.
We’ve heard it all:
“Be a man.”
“Toughen up.”
“Stop complaining—at least you’re not alone.”
But what do you call
being unloved in your own home?
What do you call
the slow death of desire,
when rejection becomes routine,
and you stop asking
because you’re tired
of hearing “no”
in a thousand different tones?
What do you call
emotional exile?
When you’re right there—
and still left out?
We carry that.
We carry rejection
like rust in our ribs.
We carry comparison
like chains around our confidence.
We carry the weight
of wanting to be held—
but being told to hold it in.
And yet,
we show up.
For our children.
For our spouses.
For the world.
We show up—
even when we’re breaking inside.
Even when our prayers
are pleas
we whisper into pillows
so no one hears us
hurting.
But brothers…
what if we didn’t carry it alone?
What if we cracked open this quiet
and let the flood come through?
What if our gatherings
were more than games and grills?
What if they were circles
of confession
and connection?
What if we sat with each other
like sacred mirrors—
reflecting what’s real
instead of what looks good?
What if we said:
“My wife hasn’t touched me in months.”
“I feel more like a roommate than a man.”
“I’m drowning in duty and dying for desire.”
“I pray with pain in my chest
and no peace in my partnership.”
What if someone responded:
“Me too.”
“I see you.”
“Let’s carry it together.”
Because there is healing
in honesty.
There is strength
in softness.
There is power
in presence.
We are not machines.
We are men of meaning.
Men molded by Allah
to feel, to fail,
to forgive and be forgiven.
Let us lay these burdens
at the altar of brotherhood.
Let us bleed our truths
into trusted hands
that won’t mock us for mourning.
Let us teach each other
that masculinity
is not measured
in how much we suppress—
but in how deeply we’re willing
to submit to the truth.
And the truth is—
we’re tired.
But we’re not broken beyond repair.
We’re bruised,
but we still believe.
We’re hurting,
but we’re still here.
We’re lonely,
but we’re not alone.
Because I see you, brother.
The man who prays
while wondering if peace
will ever return to his pillow.
The man who pays every bill
but can’t afford
another night of cold shoulders.
The man who looks at his wedding photo
and wonders
where the warmth went.
I see you.
And I say this:
You are worthy of love
that doesn’t make you beg.
You are worthy of peace
that doesn’t punish you.
You are worthy of brotherhood
that doesn’t just dab you up,
but lifts you up.
So let’s carry the weight—
not alone,
not in shame,
not in silence.
Let’s carry it
like a covenant,
like companions of the cave,
like warriors with wounds
we no longer hide.
Because the heaviest load
isn’t the burden itself—
it’s the belief
that no one will help us hold it.
And I promise you this,
from one fractured man
to another finding faith:
When we carry it together,
the weight becomes worship.
And the pain becomes purpose.
And the silence—
finally sings.
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