The journey from teenage life to adulthood is, to say the least, bumpy. It leaves you fending for yourself in a world that is suddenly very different to the one you knew only a few years before. Things that were once merely abstract and remote suddenly become concrete and frighteningly real. Grief creeps up on you as you start losing beloved and cherished family members. It waits until you are at your most vulnerable before striking with the force of a sledgehammer. So you find yourself worrying more about life, the world, and your place in it.
Moving to university is an exciting time and an opportunity to make lifelong friends and memories. But it also brings new challenges, such as how to find people whose company you genuinely enjoy, and the accompanying concern of what they really think of you. There is also the familiar challenge of building a romantic relationship, and the insecurity that sometimes comes from its absence, or the emotional baggage that another person can bring into your life. The transition from teenager to student to young adult can be overwhelming when you’re woefully underprepared. And that’s the problem: most of us are astonishingly ill-prepared. Those three odd years at university can seem endless when you’re left brooding with your thoughts. And despite the welcomed freedom, adult life can sweep you up like a ferocious tsunami that you never saw coming.
The Manosphere and Beyond
The rise of the ‘manosphere’ and its extreme take on masculinity compounds many of the anxieties young men already feel. As Louis Theroux’s excellent documentary recently highlighted, social media is increasingly awash with influencers promoting a dangerous hyper-masculinity aesthetic, with highly concerning implications for how young men view and treat women. But less talked about is the impact on men’s mental health. The rise of ‘looksmaxxing’ content has a demoralising effect on men who begin to see themselves as inferior, leading some to commit self-harm. The stoic mindset that the manosphere demands — emotional aloofness, mental and physical toughness — presents a perverse view of wellbeing that values pushing through over getting help. And so, emotional vulnerability is marked as weakness without acknowledgement that it often takes more strength to admit that you need help.
But the manosphere is not the only culprit of men’s growing anxieties. Our generation has been encouraged to be open about our mental health struggles, and that’s a good thing. But it’s not enough. We’re told ‘don’t suffer in silence’ without acknowledgement of how tough breaking that silence often is. We’re told that it’s okay to talk, but not reassured convincingly that it’ll be okay when we do. The stigma that it’s okay for men to say I need help may be going, but it’s not gone. It lingers. You wonder what people will think of you if you tell them. You wonder how they will react. You desperately want to talk to someone, anyone, but don’t want to pick up the phone and initiate that terrifying conversation. You don’t want to admit that you’re struggling when you should be, as expected, thriving at this age. Almost certainly, whoever you talk with will respond kindly and compassionately. But that doesn’t stop your suspicions. What if they aren’t who I think they are? What if they think worse of me because of this? And so it goes, the brooding, self-doubt, fear, and mental exhaustion as your brain circles around the same thoughts like a maniac.
Are You Really Okay?
We’re also told that if someone doesn’t respond supportively, then we probably shouldn’t be friends with this person anyway. That’s true, but it doesn’t overrule the gravity of worrying about the change to your life that this termination of relations would bring. The awkwardness at social events. The loss of someone to talk to about a shared interest. It all swirls around until the thought of saying what you need to say becomes too much. It becomes easier to deflect.
Suddenly, you hear, ‘Are you okay?’ A floaty half-volley begging to be dispatched to the boundary is met with an impeccable forward defence: ‘Yeah, just a bit tired,’ ‘Yeah, just zoned out for a bit.’ And when nobody tries again, asks if we’re sure, bowls another half-volley, the forward defence becomes the default. The runs dry up. Survival becomes the key, only for the stumps to be disturbed by a toe-crushing yorker from Brett Lee in his pomp. And without the runs being scored, without the regular releases of pressure, the fallout becomes greater. Much like a cricketer can lose their place, we can lose our way.
But how can you and I, as young men, begin to help each other? Well, we can start by asking that crucial follow-up question and hope that the answer is forthcoming. We can do it in a setting where judgment is less likely, and give the other person a chance to open up on their terms. But we can also help before it becomes necessary to seek help. Young men can rediscover the joy in life that comes from being with people, sharing pleasure in little moments, and feeling like a child again. If I had to recount my best times at university so far, none of them would involve me being alone in my room. Actually, those would rank among some of my worst. Simple things like going to a local football match, having a kickabout at the local rec, even chatting to new people in seminars and pushing myself out of my comfort zone at social events, remind me of the joy that life has to offer.
On some of my lowest days, the mere act of getting out of bed to play sport has been a lifeline. So keep bowling those half-volleys to your mates. Ignore those promoting a perverse and archaic image of masculinity. Keep persisting. You might be bowling for a while. But I promise, it’ll be worth it when they finally lean into that cover drive and start scoring runs again.
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