In circles of psychotherapy, and couples therapy in particular, I often hear calls for men to become more in touch with their vulnerability. There is, however, some confusion about what precisely this term means in the context of intimate relationships.

On planet YouTube, for instance, there are certain regions devoted to the empowerment of men, advising for the wholesale adoption of a masculine archetype, the outspoken, charismatic, strong, dominant, driven, fearless alpha who crushes all comers, strides across the Manhattan skyline like a colossus and stuffs his private jet full of Instagram models while sipping on single malt in a three-piece Tom Ford. Now, as appealing as such a picture may be, the sexual perks in particular – we men, after all, have been programmed by evolution to desire variety – the picture of such a man is still an archetype, a distillation of the human experience into a limited set of traits and behaviours. And as for emotions, such a man will permit himself to feel only one: anger. Anger as an asset, as a weapon against all threats to his quest for domination, even if that threat resides within himself in the form of another emotion the dogma of tradition classified as feminine, and therefore a sign of weakness. And there are two strategies for dealing with these traditionally feminine emotions: no sooner would they register on the outskirts of his consciousness than be beaten back behind the walls of his ego. Or, as if in a process of emotional alchemy, be transformed into anger.

Although not an emotion so much as a state, one that encompasses such emotions as sadness, anxiety, and pain, vulnerability, according to some of these social media influencers, is a serious threat, and the calls for men to get more in touch with it an attempt to feminise them and turn them into compliant slaves to women’s every need. I’ve even heard vulnerability described, with grimaces of disgust, as an uncontrollable gushing of emotions, as tears and snot cascading down a man’s face. Now, in certain contexts, such as the death of a loved one, or the liquidation of his business, or some other tragedy, such a reaction in a man is understandable and unless you’re a reptile, should evoke empathy. But outside of such examples, when the reaction is glaringly disproportionate to the stimulus, I agree, to see a man cry uncontrollably may urge other men to the nearest door and women’s ovaries to retreat back up their fallopian tubes. It’s evolutionary programming, let’s not try to deny it.

But as a definition of vulnerability, it’s far from accurate.

Turning to the master on the subject, Brene Brown, she defines vulnerability as “uncertainty, risk, and emotional exposure.” In other words, any circumstances, real or imagined, that fall outside the boundaries of the familiar, can elicit vulnerability to lesser or greater degrees. Dr Brown goes on to say that vulnerability is “the core, the heart, the centre of meaningful human experiences” and that it’s the “birthplace of love, belonging, joy, courage, empathy and creativity.”

But what does that mean, precisely, for men in intimate relationships?

To my mind, it suggests that we should dare to grapple with our egos, look beyond the automatic stories we create to provoke us into anger or withdrawal, and contemplate the raw stuff behind it. Those pesky fears that make us feel like lesser men. And learn, over time, not only to admit these fears, first to ourselves and then our partners, but also to articulate them in comprehensive and lucid terms. And in so doing, integrate them into our personality.

While I do believe that if we can acquire this skill, it can open the way to a deeper and more meaningful connection with our partners, and thus find myself in agreement with the call for men to get in touch with their vulnerability, I also believe that it’s not that simple. Consider for a moment that most, if not all of us, men, have been socialised from early boyhood to combat pain. Both physical and emotional. To hide it, repress it, pretend that we’re not hurt or, at the very least, are managing it with stoic control. All in order to gain, first of all, the approval and acceptance of men of authority and our peers, and later on, when the awkward phase of adolescence hits, that of girls as well. One might say that men socialise each other in this way to optimise their chances of reliable cooperation among each other, of respect and admiration for each other, in preparation for when they might find themselves in challenging or especially dangerous circumstances. And one might also say that men socialise each other in this way to optimise their attractiveness to women.

To employ the stark terms of evolutionary psychology, women tend to mate across and up the dominance hierarchy. In other words, women select men who other men have promoted to the upper strata of the hierarchy, and who other women have broadly reached an implicit consensus to indeed reflect high value. To give some obvious examples, these are the captains of sports teams, the valedictorians, the winners of scholarships to elite universities, the cage fighter, and it can even be, at the high-school and university phase of life, the hunky smooth-talker who has nothing else going for him other than his talent to woo (though as a long-term mating strategy, this latter category of guy will be a gamble, and women are more risk averse than men on average). But when we move beyond the high-school and university phase of life, it is the men who are proving, or at the very least showing marked potential, that they are already or soon will be outcompeting the majority of other men in the amassing of resources, i.e., money.

Of course, physical attraction is important, too. How symmetrical are his facial features, how athletic his body type, how tall is he. But the higher one moves up the hierarchy, the more willing women are to compromise in the looks department, while the more unattractive a man is, the more he has to compensate for that by increasing his earnings. An interesting study in online dating in America on what women found attractive in men, discovered a trade-off between income and height, and one of the findings was that a man who is five foot six has to earn an additional $175 000 per year to be more or less as desirable as a man who is six feet tall. Let that sink in.

Now, the question is, what type of man is capable of moving up the hierarchy. It is the man who matches, or at least approximates, the archetype mentioned in the beginning. A man who is high in energy, intelligence, ambition, who is confident and decisive in his actions and, it almost goes without saying, possesses superb emotional regulation. He is cool under pressure. Even if he is stressing like mad, he will hardly, if ever, show it.

So, if that is the archetype we men are encouraged to inhabit, can you begin to see the dilemma, why calls for us to get in touch with our vulnerability might seem counterintuitive to the very traits that make us desirable to women?

Keep in mind that I’m talking about general cultural patterns here. Not all men, whether they conform to the traditional masculine archetype or not, struggle with expressing vulnerability, just as not all women even want their men to show vulnerability. But those who do, and that number is increasing, need to understand that to ask your man to open up and share his feelings is daunting. You’re asking him to go against his programming. You’re asking him to drop into a jungle full of snakes, at night, without so much as a pocket knife.

On a panel discussion titled “The Masculinity Paradox,” celebrated couples therapist Terry Real said that feminism succeeded to empower women, but that along the way they lost the relationship with men. Therefore, they had a duty to bring men back into the fold. He makes a valid point. And if I may be so bold as to elaborate on what I think he means, it’s that if you want, or even expect, your man to get in touch with his vulnerability, you, in return, should be willing to check your programming. Be willing to suspend whatever distaste you might feel as he stumbles and trips across this alien terrain, look past whatever disparaging thoughts like “weak,” “spineless,” that might fly into your head. And remember, above all, that you love him, this man whom you chose because he had it together, had a plan, was on a steep career trajectory that made you feel you could count on him to provide security and stability. Allow him, in short, his humanity.

To conclude, I will say that it will take effort on both sides, accountability on both sides, the kind of maturity that modern couples seem allergic to, if we’re going to upgrade the traditional model of masculinity just enough to make for relationships of deeper and healthier connection. Without trying, as some radical leftists seem intent on doing, to burn the whole thing to the ground.

In circles of psychotherapy, and couples therapy in particular, I often hear calls for men to become more in touch with their vulnerability. There is, however, some confusion about what precisely this term means in the context of intimate relationships.

On planet YouTube, for instance, there are certain regions devoted to the empowerment of men, advising for the wholesale adoption of a masculine archetype, the outspoken, charismatic, strong, dominant, driven, fearless alpha who crushes all comers, strides across the Manhattan skyline like a colossus and stuffs his private jet full of Instagram models while sipping on single malt in a three-piece Tom Ford. Now, as appealing as such a picture may be, the sexual perks in particular – we men, after all, have been programmed by evolution to desire variety – the picture of such a man is still an archetype, a distillation of the human experience into a limited set of traits and behaviours. And as for emotions, such a man will permit himself to feel only one: anger. Anger as an asset, as a weapon against all threats to his quest for domination, even if that threat resides within himself in the form of another emotion the dogma of tradition classified as feminine, and therefore a sign of weakness. And there are two strategies for dealing with these traditionally feminine emotions: no sooner would they register on the outskirts of his consciousness than be beaten back behind the walls of his ego. Or, as if in a process of emotional alchemy, be transformed into anger.

Although not an emotion so much as a state, one that encompasses such emotions as sadness, anxiety, and pain, vulnerability, according to some of these social media influencers, is a serious threat, and the calls for men to get more in touch with it an attempt to feminise them and turn them into compliant slaves to women’s every need. I’ve even heard vulnerability described, with grimaces of disgust, as an uncontrollable gushing of emotions, as tears and snot cascading down a man’s face. Now, in certain contexts, such as the death of a loved one, or the liquidation of his business, or some other tragedy, such a reaction in a man is understandable and unless you’re a reptile, should evoke empathy. But outside of such examples, when the reaction is glaringly disproportionate to the stimulus, I agree, to see a man cry uncontrollably may urge other men to the nearest door and women’s ovaries to retreat back up their fallopian tubes. It’s evolutionary programming, let’s not try to deny it.

But as a definition of vulnerability, it’s far from accurate.

Turning to the master on the subject, Brene Brown, she defines vulnerability as “uncertainty, risk, and emotional exposure.” In other words, any circumstances, real or imagined, that fall outside the boundaries of the familiar, can elicit vulnerability to lesser or greater degrees. Dr Brown goes on to say that vulnerability is “the core, the heart, the centre of meaningful human experiences” and that it’s the “birthplace of love, belonging, joy, courage, empathy and creativity.”

But what does that mean, precisely, for men in intimate relationships?

To my mind, it suggests that we should dare to grapple with our egos, look beyond the automatic stories we create to provoke us into anger or withdrawal, and contemplate the raw stuff behind it. Those pesky fears that make us feel like lesser men. And learn, over time, not only to admit these fears, first to ourselves and then our partners, but also to articulate them in comprehensive and lucid terms. And in so doing, integrate them into our personality.

While I do believe that if we can acquire this skill, it can open the way to a deeper and more meaningful connection with our partners, and thus find myself in agreement with the call for men to get in touch with their vulnerability, I also believe that it’s not that simple. Consider for a moment that most, if not all of us, men, have been socialised from early boyhood to combat pain. Both physical and emotional. To hide it, repress it, pretend that we’re not hurt or, at the very least, are managing it with stoic control. All in order to gain, first of all, the approval and acceptance of men of authority and our peers, and later on, when the awkward phase of adolescence hits, that of girls as well. One might say that men socialise each other in this way to optimise their chances of reliable cooperation among each other, of respect and admiration for each other, in preparation for when they might find themselves in challenging or especially dangerous circumstances. And one might also say that men socialise each other in this way to optimise their attractiveness to women.

To employ the stark terms of evolutionary psychology, women tend to mate across and up the dominance hierarchy. In other words, women select men who other men have promoted to the upper strata of the hierarchy, and who other women have broadly reached an implicit consensus to indeed reflect high value. To give some obvious examples, these are the captains of sports teams, the valedictorians, the winners of scholarships to elite universities, the cage fighter, and it can even be, at the high-school and university phase of life, the hunky smooth-talker who has nothing else going for him other than his talent to woo (though as a long-term mating strategy, this latter category of guy will be a gamble, and women are more risk averse than men on average). But when we move beyond the high-school and university phase of life, it is the men who are proving, or at the very least showing marked potential, that they are already or soon will be outcompeting the majority of other men in the amassing of resources, i.e., money.

Of course, physical attraction is important, too. How symmetrical are his facial features, how athletic his body type, how tall is he. But the higher one moves up the hierarchy, the more willing women are to compromise in the looks department, while the more unattractive a man is, the more he has to compensate for that by increasing his earnings. An interesting study in online dating in America on what women found attractive in men, discovered a trade-off between income and height, and one of the findings was that a man who is five foot six has to earn an additional $175 000 per year to be more or less as desirable as a man who is six feet tall. Let that sink in.

Now, the question is, what type of man is capable of moving up the hierarchy. It is the man who matches, or at least approximates, the archetype mentioned in the beginning. A man who is high in energy, intelligence, ambition, who is confident and decisive in his actions and, it almost goes without saying, possesses superb emotional regulation. He is cool under pressure. Even if he is stressing like mad, he will hardly, if ever, show it.

So, if that is the archetype we men are encouraged to inhabit, can you begin to see the dilemma, why calls for us to get in touch with our vulnerability might seem counterintuitive to the very traits that make us desirable to women?

Keep in mind that I’m talking about general cultural patterns here. Not all men, whether they conform to the traditional masculine archetype or not, struggle with expressing vulnerability, just as not all women even want their men to show vulnerability. But those who do, and that number is increasing, need to understand that to ask your man to open up and share his feelings is daunting. You’re asking him to go against his programming. You’re asking him to drop into a jungle full of snakes, at night, without so much as a pocket knife.

On a panel discussion titled “The Masculinity Paradox,” celebrated couples therapist Terry Real said that feminism succeeded to empower women, but that along the way they lost the relationship with men. Therefore, they had a duty to bring men back into the fold. He makes a valid point. And if I may be so bold as to elaborate on what I think he means, it’s that if you want, or even expect, your man to get in touch with his vulnerability, you, in return, should be willing to check your programming. Be willing to suspend whatever distaste you might feel as he stumbles and trips across this alien terrain, look past whatever disparaging thoughts like “weak,” “spineless,” that might fly into your head. And remember, above all, that you love him, this man whom you chose because he had it together, had a plan, was on a steep career trajectory that made you feel you could count on him to provide security and stability. Allow him, in short, his humanity.

To conclude, I will say that it will take effort on both sides, accountability on both sides, the kind of maturity that modern couples seem allergic to, if we’re going to upgrade the traditional model of masculinity just enough to make for relationships of deeper and healthier connection. Without trying, as some radical leftists seem intent on doing, to burn the whole thing to the ground.