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Let’s talk about male friendship—the kind of connection that hums beneath the surface, something deep and ancient, the kind that we sense but don’t talk about enough. Among men, there’s so often this yearning inside, a quiet whisper in our bones for connection that goes beyond the surface level stuff—beyond the “Hey, how’s it going?” and the shoulder pats. It’s something a lot of us want but can’t always find the words for.
Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about my own friendships. Some of my closest friends are going through things that feel too heavy for casual conversation. One of my best friends is facing mental health issues. Another is struggling to rebuild his life after a marriage breakdown. Others have wrestled with financial challenges or health issues of their own. And yet, while we’ve become pretty good at raising a glass to celebrate promotions or work wins, we aren’t as great at digging into the hard stuff. We often stay on the surface when, deep down, I think we all want to go further, to offer real support and connection.
At the same time, it’s a complex moment to talk about men’s experiences. Let’s be honest: this isn’t exactly the “year of the man.” Society is questioning and rethinking traditional ideas of masculinity, and many men feel uncertain or cautious as they navigate these changes. While this shift is essential for fostering greater equality and inclusivity, it can also feel confusing for men who are trying to understand how they fit into a world that’s rapidly evolving.
Men need connection, vulnerability, and support now more than ever. But somewhere along the way, we got the message that men aren’t supposed to need these things.
But despite the awkwardness, men are struggling. And we can’t afford to overlook that. The stats on male mental health are alarming. In the U.S., men are nearly four times more likely to die by suicide than women, according to the CDC. A 2020 study found that only about one-third of men with a mental health condition actually seek treatment. Globally, the World Health Organization (WHO) reports similar trends, with men being less likely to reach out for mental health support. Men are often told to “man up” or “push through,” when in reality, they’re experiencing incredibly difficult mental health challenges, and often facing them alone.
The numbers highlight something essential: Men need connection, vulnerability, and support now more than ever. But somewhere along the way, we got the message that men aren’t supposed to need these things.
The crisis of connection among men
There’s incredible work by Dr. Niobe Way, a developmental psychologist who has spent years listening to boys talk about their friendships. When boys are young, they form deep, emotionally rich connections with each other. They’re vulnerable, open, and honest. They say things like “I love him” without hesitation. It’s raw. It’s beautiful. It’s real.
But then something happens. Around adolescence, society steps in and says, “Hey, you’re a man now. Time to toughen up.” Dr. Way calls this the “crisis of connection.” Boys start to believe that to be a man is to be distant, emotionally self-sufficient, and a little cold. They push away from friendships that once meant the world to them.
Geoffrey Greif, in his book Buddy System, talks about how men shift into activity-based friendships — golfing buddies, work colleagues — but those deep, emotionally supportive friendships? They fade away. And it’s not because men don’t want them. It’s because they’ve been told they’re not supposed to need them.
Dr. Ronald Levant’s concept of the "male code" is this unspoken set of rules that tells men how to act: Don’t cry. Don’t show weakness. Don’t rely on anyone. Be tough. Be independent.
“But while we have no control over time itself, we do have a choice in how we orient to it, how we inhabit the moment, how we own the past and open to the future - a choice that shapes our entire experience of life, that ossuary of time. And just as it bears remembering that there are infinitely many kinds of beautiful lives, it bears remembering that there are infinitely many ways of being in time.” - Maria Popova, The Marginalian
Change of environment
I put on my ski gear, and pull my boot bag up on my back. Covered head to toe, I step outside. My skis are perched on my left shoulder, and my poles are in my right hand. I walk carefully down the snowy path and up through the village to the lift. It’s a sacred ten minutes of meditative rhythmic walking to warm me up for the day ahead.
New snow has fallen – about twenty centimetres. The snow cats have groomed the mountain during the night. It’s early and I'll be on the first lift up to the slopes.
This is the change of environment I crave the most at this time in my life. The movement from posed stability to energetic vulnerability, from the familiar to the serendipitous unknown, from the routine to the spontaneous. Here on the mountain I feel like I live life to its fullest. I feel more alive here than anywhere else. Curiosity is my catalyst — I could rest today, I could contemplate other days gone by, but I'm curious: What will the snow be like? What will my balance and form be like? What shapes of clouds will appear? What breeze will freeze my nose? Where will the trail take me? It is ski season; adventurous, mysterious and invigorating. It provides another form of lifestyle filled with the sort of vulnerability I love.
Of course everyone knows that change is constant, but there is nowhere else in the world where I see, feel, hear, touch and taste this truth more clearly than here on the side of my favourite mountain.
This magic mountain that I've skied for years and years changes all the time. It's ironic really, as it is made of stone and rock, ice and dirt - elements so strong and stable, so unmoving and unbudgeable, so unforgiving and invincible, yet it is forever changing. Of course everyone knows that change is constant, but there is nowhere else in the world where I see, feel, hear, touch and taste this truth more clearly than here on the side of my favourite mountain. Such a curious phenomenon — this alpine environment that moves and changes constantly, just like me. The weather forecast looks good today, colder than yesterday, but mostly sunny in the morning with the wind rising in the afternoon. Of course, this could change too.
Letting change flow
Arriving at the base of the mountain, I put on my ski boots, tuck my shoes away for the day, and once again perch my skis on my shoulder. I use my poles to help me navigate the steps up to the gates; it’s the beginning of the season and this morning routine of getting to the lifts still has me feeling a bit winded as I get used to the altitude. My friend is waiting for me. She and I smile brightly at each other and, seconds later, the buzzer goes off and the gates are activated. We are the first ones through, proud of ourselves for our early rising and excited to experience the thrill of another ski day together. We banter about the beautiful day ahead, our slight aches and pains and need for some stretching.
My friend is confident and bold — an expert skier. Me, I am not as confident and I am no expert. But I am bold, and she inspires me. Most of all, I am grateful for the change of scenery, communing with nature and the joy of being together again on the mountain.
Tensing up in anticipation of a coming bump or turn will surely cause a fall. The key to serenity on skis is letting change flow, becoming one with the change, and then being the change.
As we descend each run at our own pace, our skis pushing us beyond our unique comfort zones, we each experience individualized moments in the quiet rhythm of skiing. Every day on the slope is different, every turn of every carve into the snow is different, at times smooth and other times choppy. At all times, our minds must stay connected to our bodies. It is invigorating and mystifying, as we must disconnect from all worries and all other actions and stay absolutely present. Tensing up in anticipation of a coming bump or turn will surely cause a fall. The key to serenity on skis is letting change flow, becoming one with the change, and then being the change.
After a few hours of skiing our favourite trails, I tell my friend I want to stop at a lookout spot, not because I’m tired but because I want to breathe in my surroundings. She says she’ll let me have a bit of alone time and we decide she’ll do another run and meet me back here. The sky is vast and filled with a multitude of blue hues, the clouds are fantastical and bright white. The fresh cold air is thinner up here; it smells minty as it passes through my nostrils and it tastes minerally as it drips down my throat. The steam rises from my scarf as I breathe in and out, feeling the warmth of my body. This change of environment is essential to my well-being. It’s not just any change of environment though.
Chrono-diversity
It’s being up at altitude that thrills me most. The physicist Carlo Rovelli in his book “The Order of Time” captures the essence of my pause at the lookout spot. He writes,
“I stop and do nothing. Nothing happens. I am thinking about nothing. I listen to the passing of time. This is time, familiar and intimate. We are taken by it…. Our being is being in time.”
I lived and worked in this village just below the slopes for ten years, all through my thirties, and now that I am retired, I return here as much as possible. Initially when I moved away, down to sea level and no longer at altitude, it took me a long time to adjust and to adapt to being in a different time zone, but not just a different chronometric time zone, but a different “chrono-atmospheric” time zone.
I am fascinated by the way Rovelli explains how altitude changes time. He writes, “Let’s begin with a simple fact: time passes faster in the mountains than it does at sea level…
I am fascinated by the way Rovelli explains how altitude changes time. He writes, “Let’s begin with a simple fact: time passes faster in the mountains than it does at sea level… This slowing down can be detected between levels just a few centimetres apart: a clock placed on the floor runs a little more slowly than one on a table. It is not just the clocks that slow down: lower down, all processes are slower.”
When I read this, I started to understand and accept why I had found it so challenging to transition from life up on the mountain to life in the valley. All of my processes had to become slower; my mental and physical, even spiritual relationships towards time had to change in order for me to adapt and to adjust to my new surroundings. It was a very unnerving time at first, and I found myself longing to return to the mountains. Despite the fact that I enjoyed my new job, raising my children and making new friends in a different culture, my personal processes, like my coping mechanisms, had slowed down and I needed to give myself time to accept the newness of this “chrono-diversity” at sea level.
Some consider winter a time to slow down and rest, imitating elements of nature that hibernate and tuck in to escape the cold. But for me, it is this change of environment, this other way of being in time, this speeding up and expanding of time, that I long for in the winter months.
During those years, my friend stayed in the mountains; she never returned to life in the valley. And I believe this makes us different in the way we now measure time. Maybe her time does actually pass more quickly than mine? She is a speed queen and can get a million things done in one day. She thinks faster than I think, and certainly skis faster than I ski.
Some consider winter a time to slow down and rest, imitating elements of nature that hibernate and tuck in to escape the cold. But for me, it is this change of environment, this other way of being in time, this speeding up and expanding of time, that I long for in the winter months. It’s the rigour and rhythm of mountain time. Rovelli writes,
“Two friends separate, with one of them living in the plains and the other going to live in the mountains. They meet up again years later: the one who has stayed down has lived less, aged less, the mechanism of his cuckoo clock has oscillated fewer times. He has had less time to do things, his plants have grown less, his thoughts have had less time to unfold ... Lower down, there is simply less time than at altitude.”
I guess the proof is “in the physics.” As I’ve learned, it is the changeability of time in the mountains that keeps me skiing through life. Even if it seems a bit ironic and mysterious to me, I imagine I will always feel this type of change to be constant in my life. Though I suppose, that could change too.
Barriers to emotional vulnerability in male friendships
Now, let’s talk about the barrier to vulnerability in male friendship. Dr. Ronald Levant’s concept of the "male code" is this unspoken set of rules that tells men how to act: Don’t cry. Don’t show weakness. Don’t rely on anyone. Be tough. Be independent. You’ve heard it, right? It’s everywhere, and it’s killing us.
Robert Garfield, in his book Breaking the Male Code, says that many men live within this box, where emotional suppression is the norm, and connection is sacrificed at the altar of stoicism. It’s not just that men don’t want to be vulnerable—they’ve been taught to fear it. To feel is to be weak. To need is to be dependent. And men are supposed to be invincible, right?
The power of emotional intimacy in male friendship
But what if we flipped the script? What if we broke through this male code and allowed ourselves to feel and connect again? Geoffrey Greif talks about different types of male friendships — activity friends, close friends, and somewhere-in-between friends. The thing is, all these friendships can be rich and deep, but only if we allow vulnerability to enter the room.
Dr. Robert Garfield gives us a roadmap for this. He says that men need to show up emotionally for each other. Not just with a beer and casual conversation, but with their whole selves. It’s about being seen, admitting fears, and confessing that we don’t have it all together. That’s where the magic happens.
Emotional intimacy isn’t about sitting around a campfire sharing deepest fears—though that works, too. It’s about honesty. Letting someone into the parts of life you usually keep hidden. In that vulnerability, deeper, richer friendship takes root.
Redefining masculinity: A path to deeper friendships
Andrew Reiner, in Better Boys, Better Men, talks about how we’re at a cultural crossroads when it comes to masculinity. The old model—the tough, emotionless, independent man—is crumbling. In its place? A new kind of masculinity that embraces vulnerability, leans into emotional openness, and celebrates connection.
Real strength isn’t about going it alone. It’s about community, connection, and realizing that we’re better, and stronger, together.
This shift isn’t just about friendship. It’s about how we live as men. Richard Reeves, in Of Boys and Men, talks about how society is changing and men’s roles are evolving. Real strength isn’t about going it alone. It’s about community, connection, and realizing that we’re better, and stronger, together.
The future of male friendships
So, how do we take this knowledge and change the way we show up in friendships? It starts with one thing: vulnerability. It takes courage to say, “I’m struggling,” or “I don’t have it all figured out,” or even, “I love you, man.”
And if a friend is struggling, it also takes courage to really show up. Robert Garfield offers practical ways—be present, listen without judgement, create space for realness. And when you do that? The friendship deepens. The connection grows. Suddenly, you’re no longer walking through life alone.
Male friendship doesn’t have to be shallow or surface-level. And it certainly doesn’t have to be defined by an outdated version of masculinity that says men don’t feel or need. We do feel. We do need each other. When we embrace that, when we let go of the male code and step into vulnerability, we find something extraordinary on the other side.
