For generations, men have been taught to hide their hearts—to swallow pain, to silence emotion, and to confuse strength with emotional isolation. We’ve been told that to be a man is to be unbreakable. But the truth is, unbreakable often means unreachable. And when we trade vulnerability for silence, we pass down wounds instead of wisdom.
This is an open letter—to the boys becoming men, the fathers raising them, and the women who love them. May it be a reminder, a comfort, and a challenge to build a better way forward.
Not all mountains are born from the earth.
Some are made—
day by day, year by year—
forged in fire, shaped by hardship,
carved by the quiet blade of rejection,
weathered by trauma we were taught to ignore.
A man can become a mountain.
He learns to be resilient through storms.
To carry weight without buckling.
To grow colder with altitude, harder with time.
Unmovable. Unshakable. Alone.
We were told that was strength.
That silence is noble.
That swallowing pain is manhood.
That softness is weakness,
and tears are shameful.
But that was a lie.
A lie passed from father to son,
uncles to nephews,
locker rooms to lunch tables.
A lie that has stolen fathers from homes,
men from themselves,
and buried too many in silence before their time.
And here’s what I’ve learned—
what I’ve told my patients,
what I remind myself:
“Tears that remain in the body are poisonous.
It is only when they touch air and skin
that they become a healing balm.
Tears heal—
as long as we allow ourselves to cry.”
This is not weakness.
This is medicine.
This is the beginning of healing.
My children are my softness.
They are my tenderness.
My warmth. My air. My love.
They remind me that I am not just a mountain—
but a man.
A father.
A soul who still feels the sun,
still holds others close,
still opens my heart despite the storms.
To the men raising sons:
Your strength is not in your silence—
it’s in your presence.
In your tears.
In your courage to feel what your fathers could not.
When you cry in front of your children,
you teach them that emotions are not shameful.
You teach them that being human is not a failure—
it’s a gift.
To the boys becoming men:
You are allowed to be soft.
You are allowed to be overwhelmed.
You are allowed to speak the truth of your heart
without fear of losing your worth.
You do not need to become stone to be strong.
You are not too much.
You are not a burden.
You are not broken.
But hear this too:
Your ability to defend yourself is important.
Every man should hone his strength.
Not to dominate—but to protect.
Not to explode—but to withstand.
Because raw strength without discipline is dangerous.
And power without control is chaos.
Control over your emotions is not suppression—it is mastery.
Especially when it comes to anger.
A man ruled by his emotions is not powerful—he is unpredictable.
And unpredictability is not strength. It is a wound looking for a place to bleed.
“A hammer must learn to strike the nail
without bending it or breaking the wall behind it.”
Power must be focused.
Discipline gives strength its purpose.
So yes—be strong.
Yes—be able to defend what you love.
But do not mistake rage for power, or numbness for control.
True strength is the man who knows how to carry the storm—
without letting it rain on everyone he loves.
To the women—
Mothers, sisters, partners, daughters:
Your presence matters in this healing.
Allow the men you love—
your husbands, your sons, your brothers, your friends—
to be soft in your presence.
Let them cry without shame.
Let them speak without fear of being judged
or made to feel less than a man.
Hold space for their vulnerability
without trying to fix it or shrink it.
Because when a man feels safe enough to be soft,
he becomes whole.
And in return,
he will love you fiercely and without distance.
He will be your protector—not from a place of pride,
but from a place of deep connection and trust.
He will not hide from you—he will stand with you.
A mountain can withstand anything—
but it cannot hold you when you need to be held.
And the world doesn’t need more stone.
It needs men who know that true strength
is the ability to stay open.
To carry weight without going numb.
To feel.
To cry.
To love—and be loved in return.
So be that man.
Raise that man.
Support that man.
And never forget:
You are more than stone.
If this letter spoke to you—share it.
With a father. A son. A mother. A partner.
Let it reach the people who need to hear:
you are not alone, and your softness is sacred.
Ink & Shadows: The Words of Osiris j Reapor 
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