Real men don’t...: Charles Assisi on rewriting the rules

There are too many don'ts. Let’s just stop. Men can be softer, vulnerable, comfortable with the idea of reaching out.A new generation is already showing the way

There is a kind of man who doesn’t explain himself. He shows up, keeps things moving; says little, feels less, and never admits weakness.

A still from the Lena Dunham Netflix series Too Much. Its rather twisty romcom tale is a reminder that everyone has baggage, and at least a little unlearning to do.

People see him as strong. A psychologist once told me I come across like that. “The Marlboro Man,” he said. That old cowboy from the cigarette ads, always riding into the horizon; no time to pause, no hesitation, no regrets.

I thought that was quite a compliment. Looking back now (as no Marlboro Man would ever do), I have begun to wonder.

In my malleable years, I was taught this was what a man should be. Men don’t cry. They keep their emotions close and apologies closer. They use words sparingly to earn respect.

I built my identity around being solid, by these definitions. I don’t do sentimental. I show affection through presence, not praise. I apologise only when I’ve clearly done something wrong. I always thought of this as rational and fair.

Then my gym buddy, Dr Rahul Chavan, told me about a ritual he follows. “Every night before I sleep,” he said, “I turn to my wife and say: ‘If I hurt you today, or made you feel neglected, or didn’t see you, I’m sorry. You’re the most precious person in my life.’”

He wasn’t trying to impress me. He just stated this plainly. He has apparently been doing this for years.

“It resets the day,” he said. “If I’ve been distracted or a bit short-tempered, that line can take the edge off. She forgives me more easily because she knows I see her.”

I laughed. “That’s nice, man,” I said. He smiled. “Try it for a week. See what happens.”

Well, I tried to give it a shot.

One night, I walked in ready. The words were in my head. But I couldn’t say them. Something inside me froze. I told myself I’d try again the next night, but I froze again. Night after night, I couldn’t do it. I began to seriously wonder why.

It wasn’t because the words felt dishonest. There was nothing in them that made me uncomfortable. So where did this sense of danger come from? On thinking deeply, I realised it was the context that made me squeamish.

I was raised to think of vulnerability as a sign of crisis: serious illness made one vulnerable, or legal hassles, or a financial slump.

Why would I invite vulnerability on a quiet, ordinary night? The whole thing felt unnatural. Why offer emotion if I hadn’t been asked for it? More than once, I found myself thinking: “Why should I apologise if I haven’t done anything wrong?” Or, “Won’t this sound rehearsed?” Or worse, “Won’t this make me seem weak?”

That’s when it hit me: this was really about identity. I am now defined by a certain kind of strength, rationality and composure. Could I change that? Did I want to?

It took me a while to admit that Rahul wasn’t asking me to change any of those things. He was simply asking me to be more generous. To admit that despite my intentions, I might have caused hurt I didn’t notice. He was suggesting that I set myself aside so that the person closest to me might hear the words “you matter” — not as a reward locked into easy context (anniversary, birthday, end of an argument) but as a casual reminder.

It was with a bit of a pang that I realised how different today’s role models must be.

Rahul isn’t a poet or wide-eyed romantic. He is a dental surgeon, calm under pressure and precise with words. Yet he doesn’t even see his ritual as a grand gesture; just honesty and love.

I still haven’t been able to cross the bridge he has so casually sauntered over. Most nights, I think about it. Some nights, I even rehearse the words in my head. But like a poorly trained actor, I can’t yet say them.

What is strange is that I can say all this here; open up to strangers, and even make it all seem a bit profound. I can hope that my wife reads this and knows.

I can admit that I don’t want to be the Marlboro Man. I want to be something softer; someone who pauses, reaches out, and risks being misunderstood.

Maybe one day I’ll say the things I want to say. Not because I’ve changed completely, but because I’ve decided that silence can only take you so far.

(Charles Assisi is co-founder of Founding Fuel. He can be reached on assisi@foundingfuel.com)