What is grief, and how are men supposed to deal with it?
Most men have heard some version of “rub some dirt in it,” or simply, “be a man.” Usually, the message underneath it is clear: whatever you are feeling, get over it. Do not complain. Do not let it slow you down. Do not let anyone see that it hurts.
I think most men hate hearing that because it feels condescending and belittling. It tells us that emotions are not for men, and that a “real man” should not feel pain deeply. But I do not think that is strength. I think it teaches men to hide the very things they need to bring before God.
Grief is not some modern invention. It is part of being human. Abraham mourned Sarah. Jacob mourned Joseph when he believed his son had been killed. Job grieved the loss of his children, his possessions, and his health. Even Jesus wept at the tomb of Lazarus. Scripture does not present grieving men as weak men. It shows us men bringing their grief to God.
My wife and I are currently going through fertility testing. As things stand right now, I am not producing sperm, and there is a possibility that I may not be able to have children naturally. That is difficult to write publicly, but I think there is value in being honest about the things men are often tempted to keep hidden.
I have always wanted children. I have wanted to be a father, and I have wanted my wife to be a mother. I have looked forward to raising kids with her, building our family, and watching her become the mother I know shw would be. When we began receiving answers that made that future feel uncertain, it did not just feel like a medical issue. It felt personal. It felt like something in me had failed.
As a man, and especially as a Christian man, I have always felt a responsibility to provide for my wife, protect her, lead our home, and build a family with her. So learning that my body might not be able to give us children made me feel like I was failing at something I was supposed to be able to do. It made me feel less like a man. There have been moments when it has made me feel useless, incomplete, and like I no longer have the purpose I thought I had.
My first response was depression and isolation. I did not want to talk about it. I wanted an answer, a fix, and a way to move on. But there are things in life that cannot be fixed quickly, no matter how badly you want to fix them. There are things that force you to admit that you are not in control, and that is hard when you are used to being the person who solves problems and [tries to] carry the weight.
The grief still comes in waves. Some days I feel steady, and then something small brings it all back. A conversation about children, a pregnancy announcement, seeing a father with his kids, or simply thinking about the future can bring the questions back to the surface. I am still learning how to navigate that. I am still wrestling with some depression, with the feeling that I am not “man enough,” and with the fear that I may not be able to give my wife something I know she desires too.
Psalm 13 has helped give me words for that kind of grief. In it, David does not begin with a clean answer or a polished prayer. He begins by asking, “How long?”
“How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me? How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and day after day have sorrow in my heart? How long will my enemy triumph over me?” - Psalm 13: 1-2
David asks “How long?” four times. He feels forgotten. He feels like God is distant. He is wrestling with his thoughts every day, carrying sorrow in his heart, and wondering when it will end.
That is what grief can feel like. It is not always loud or dramatic. Sometimes it is waking up and immediately remembering the thing you wish was different. Sometimes it is being alone with your thoughts and asking questions you do not have answers for. Why did this happen? Why has God allowed it? Why hasn't He made it better yet? How long am I supposed to carry this?
Those questions do not mean you do not have faith. David was a man after God’s own heart, and he still asked them. He did not pretend he was fine. He did not bury the grief under pride. He brought it directly to God.
Then David moves from naming his pain to asking God to intervene:
“Look on me and answer, Lord my God. Give light to my eyes, or I will sleep in death, and my enemy will say, ‘I have overcome him,’ and my foes will rejoice when I fall.”
Psalm 13: 3-4
David is not passive here. He is pleading with God. Look at me. Answer me. Help me. Give me light because I do not have the strength to keep carrying this by myself.
I relate to that. There have been times through this process when I did not know what to pray beyond, “God, please help us.” I have wanted Him to take this grief away, to give us clarity, to fix what feels broken, and to make the future feel certain again. There are moments when trusting God through something like this feels like one of the hardest things I have ever had to do.
But David does not end Psalm 13 with the question, “How long?” He ends it by choosing to trust God while he is still in the middle of the pain:
“But I trust in your unfailing love; my heart rejoices in your salvation. I will sing the Lord’s praise, for he has been good to me.”
Psalm 13: 5-6
That is the part that matters most to me. David does not suddenly receive an explanation. The Psalm does not tell us that his enemies disappear or that his circumstances immediately change. Nothing in those final verses tells us that the pain is gone.
What changes is where David puts his trust.
He begins the Psalm feeling forgotten by God, but he ends it remembering God’s unfailing love. He begins with sorrow in his heart, but he ends by remembering that God has been good to him. David’s faith is not based on whether his circumstances are easy. It is based on the character of God.
That is what I am learning. Faith is not pretending the grief is gone. It is not forcing yourself to be happy or acting like the loss does not matter. Faith is choosing to trust God’s character when you cannot understand His plan. It is remembering that God is still good when life is not going the way you expected.
I do not know exactly what our future holds. I do not know how God will answer every prayer my wife and I have prayed, or how long this season will be difficult. But I do know that He has not abandoned us. The waves of grief are real, but they are not proof that God is absent. God has met us in the middle of this, and He has given us hope that He is still working and providing a future better than what I can currently see.
I am still learning that my worth as a man is not determined by what my body can or cannot do. I am still learning that being a husband is not only about what I can provide, but also about how I love my wife, walk with her, pray with her, and continue trusting God beside her. I am still learning that my purpose is not gone simply because the path I expected may look different than I thought.
Grief does not make a man weak. Pretending you are unaffected does not make you strong. Real strength is being honest about what hurts, bringing it before God, and refusing to let it turn into isolation, bitterness, or hopelessness. It is allowing trusted brothers to know what you are carrying instead of trying to prove that you can carry it alone.
I am not writing this as someone who has reached the other side and has every answer. I am writing it in the middle of it. I am still grieving. I am still trusting. I am still learning how to praise God while I wait. And to be honest, it is one of the hardest things I have ever done.
But with God, there is hope. Not shallow hope that ignores the pain, but real hope that stands in the middle of it and says, “I do not understand this yet, but I know God has been good to me. I know He is still good. And I know He will not leave me here alone.”
I don’t see the good in it yet, which means, God is not done with it yet.