info@queerjoytherapy.com
114 Maitland Street, Toronto
info@queerjoytherapy.com
114 Maitland Street, Toronto
I recently attended a masculinity workshop. Before going, I felt fear—a tightness in my chest and a quiet voice whispering, What if this just makes me feel worse? I realized I didn’t trust men, not fully. Growing up, my experiences with men were often marked by disconnection and pain. In past relationships, I’d felt unsafe, sexualized, or dismissed. And in my family, the emotional warmth I craved from male figures just wasn’t there. Until recently, I hadn’t fully understood how much this shaped me. I didn’t grow up seeing men who could hold their own emotions, much less mine. Instead, I learned to see masculinity as something transactional: men were there to provide, to work, to perform. Feelings, softness, and care were not part of the equation. I carried that wound into adulthood, feeling inadequate in my own masculinity—queer enough to be a man, but man enough to be queer. What surprised me at the workshop was how many men shared this same pain. Whether cis or trans, straight or queer, the men in that room carried similar stories: mistrust of men, fear of vulnerability, and a longing for connection that often felt unreachable. For the first time, I realized something profound—men are afraid of men too.
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Writer's information:
Yijia is a proud Queer Asian therapist, based in Tkaronto (colonially known as Toronto)
Growing up, I witnessed my father struggle with his role as a father. He worked tirelessly to provide for us, but I could sense the weight of his inadequacy. He felt like he was never enough, and I think, in many ways, he didn’t know how to be anything more than a provider. That’s what society told him a man was: not an emotional anchor, but a financial one.
This dehumanization of masculinity—reducing men to their ability to provide or protect—leaves little room for anything else. Boys learn early to mask their emotional needs with power, to cover up their vulnerability with dominance or silence. And yet, beneath all of that, we’re human too. Deep down, men just want recognition, respect, and connection. We want to be seen. We want to be valued—not for what we can do, but for who we are.
For queer men, trans men, and gay men, this pain is often compounded by rejection. Many of us grow up longing for safety and connection with other men—fathers, brothers, friends, and lovers—only to be excluded, mocked, or punished for not fitting the mold. We grow up feeling like we’re not "man enough" for the world we live in, and that wound runs deep.
The paradox is this: we’re hurt by men, but we still long for them. We crave what we didn’t get growing up—intimacy, care, and respect. For years, I found myself drawn to men but feeling mistrustful and guarded. It’s a cycle of longing and fear, desire and rejection, and it’s exhausting.
But here’s what I’ve learned: this cycle doesn’t have to define us. We can reclaim masculinity and redefine it as something that heals instead of harms.
Reclaiming masculinity isn’t about rejecting it entirely—it’s about reshaping it into something expansive, something human. Here’s what I’ve learned along the way:
One of the most powerful lessons I’ve learned is that men can be emotional providers, too. The script society gives us says men must provide financially, but that’s a dehumanizing and incomplete role. Masculinity can include holding space for others’ feelings, showing care and tenderness, and building emotional safety. When men are taught to see themselves as emotional providers, it not only heals their relationships—it heals them too.
For so long, I thought being a man meant suppressing my emotions, but I’ve come to see that vulnerability is where true strength lies. It takes courage to say, “I’m afraid” or “I’m hurting.” Sharing those feelings at the workshop didn’t make me weak—it made me feel more connected and alive.
Queer men often grow up feeling like we’re not "real men" because we don’t fit into society’s narrow mold of masculinity. But being queer is not a rejection of masculinity—it’s an expansion of it. We are queer enough to be men, and men enough to be queer. We can redefine masculinity in ways that celebrate fluidity, softness, and creativity.
The most profound healing often comes from connecting with other men. For so long, I believed that male relationships had to be competitive or transactional. But the workshop showed me something different: men can show up for each other with care, tenderness, and respect. Whether through friendships, romantic relationships, or community spaces, building emotional intimacy with other men is not only possible—it’s transformative.
All men, regardless of gender identity or sexual orientation, share a deep need to feel seen and valued. For queer men especially, this longing often stems from years of feeling invisible or inadequate. Part of reclaiming masculinity is honoring this longing and giving ourselves permission to seek out spaces where we are recognized and respected for who we are.
The vision of masculinity I carry now is one of liberation. It’s a masculinity that holds space for vulnerability, care, and tenderness. It’s a masculinity that isn’t afraid to say, “I need you,” or “I love you.” It’s a masculinity that values emotional connection just as much as physical or financial strength.
For those of us who have felt rejected or hurt by men, the path to healing is not easy, but it’s possible. We can create spaces where men hold each other—emotionally, spiritually, and even physically. We can build a world where masculinity is no longer defined by competition or dominance, but by connection, compassion, and care.
To all the men reading this, I want you to know: you are enough. You are enough to be a man, enough to be queer, enough to be tender. Masculinity belongs to you—not the other way around. Together, we can reclaim it, rebuild it, and make it a source of healing for ourselves and each other.
