Why Do Boys Love Each Other Loudly, But Men Do It In Code?
My son has a best friend forever. They were born in the same hospital, only four hours apart. His mother and I didn’t know each other back then, but when I first met her, she looked at me and said, smiling, “Ah! It’s you! We go to the same butcher.”
She is Italian. I am Spanish. And the poor butcher had spent months confusing us—asking her for her/my mum (who, when she visited, would request very specific cuts of meat for very specific Spanish stews). I love it when friendships are meant to be. This one was.
I love watching my kid and hers grow up together. It gives me so much insight into what boys’ friendships could and should be. But it also breaks my heart to think how many men no longer have those connections (I like to believe they were once allowed to). Even more heartbreaking? The idea that Eric and Owen’s friendship—this pure, joyful thing that started with them half-arsed lifted to the sun in baby yoga—might one day shrink into something more stereotypical and shallow.
Sometimes, I catch myself recording them. Their hand-holding. The way one hugs the other when they’re upset. How they laugh, how they share. How they miss each other, physically. “I haven’t seen Owen in FOREVER,” Eric sighs dramatically. (He saw him two weeks ago.)
Eric wants to go to university wherever Owen goes, and they plan to live together—but just as friends. Nora, on the other hand, is also not interested in romantic relationships (which, fucking fair enough, considering she’s six) but is determined to have four kids, all on her own. Somehow, she’s already figured out that partners are often a burden - though she hasn’t quite realised yet that, some of the time, kids are too.
One day, listening to the three of them chatting in the back of the car, I couldn’t stop laughing but, to be honest, proudly—pride for futures that look nothing like the one-size-fits-all model we were sold.
Nora plans to be a rock star (as well as a single mother of four). She’s willing to pay Eric and Owen very well to help with it all, especially when she’s on tour. The boys seem okay with that, but they’d rather downgrade to a tiny flat if it means more time to play and less time working. Also, it’s less to tidy. To be honest, I’ve heard worse plans.
As soon as the bracelet-making kit he and Nora had bought with their own money arrived, Eric made two friendship bracelets. One said "Eric♡Owen," the other "Owen♡Eric." Flowers. Colours. He was so proud. And I was too. Because by now, social stereotypes and boys’ pressures to reject anything perceived as feminine are vile. Yet, here he is, still fully himself. A boy who makes friendship bracelets.
I know parents who wouldn’t be happy with that. Parents who would joke about their son being a player if he hugs a girl but would feel the need to course-correct if the kid their son chooses to hug was another boy. Parents who want their sons to hang mostly with boys, but bonding over sports and fart jokes, not hand-holding and handmade jewellery. Probably the same parents who desperately need to build—and wear—friendship bracelets themselves if you ask me.
As well as the still alive homophobia that runs deep in our society, I suppose that it has something to do with a sense of lacking. A belief that being tough had “served me well.” A quiet understanding that fitting into the traditional masculine script is a rite of passage. That sooner rather than later, boys must learn that men’s expressions of love should be reserved for women—mothers and partners, and ideally, never in public.
But I think there is so much feminism and resistance in men loving men.
Not in the way they already do—after all, they read, listen to, watch, and hang out mostly with other men; they always believe men, the people they admire and by whom they want to be admired are other men. But love in a way that is open, vulnerable, real. The kind of love that is public and open and unapologetic. A love that carries. A love that listens. A love that touches.
I came across a viral video about “Wednesday Waffles” a while back. A group of men send each other a video every Wednesday to check in. Every single Wednesday, each of them record themselves for a minute or two to share what’s going on in their lives. To keep connected, active witnesses of each other’s journey.
My husband has a lot of great friends, but if I asked him how any of them really are, or what’s happening in their lives, I doubt he’d know. And that’s a man who has been teased for wearing cardigans and crossing his legs—who wears it with pride.
But if I asked about Stu, he’d know—maybe because our families essentially run a part-time commune. Lately, he and Stu have been talking about starting a men’s circle, meeting around a fire once a month. I love that idea. I wish more men had it.
That’s all it takes. Men. Sitting together, with warm clothes and warm drinks. Willing to connect. To share wins and struggles. To hold each other accountable. To call bullshit when needed—and, just as importantly, to say, “I’m proud of you.”
I have that with some women, and it’s so important in my life, the kind of thing that I would want for everyone, because I don’t think humans are that different—not once we peel back the many layers of conditioning.
Straight men are starved of connection. And when all their emotional needs fall on their partners, it exhausts her and still isn’t enough for him.
For a long time, they told us that feminism meant more women in suits. And sure, I desperately want more women in power (ideally with much comfier and more creative attire). But my approach has always been to look into childhood—observing and expanding outdated views from the beginning. Go to the root. Free everyone.
My passion is a feminist way of living, one where women’s anger and men’s sadness have space. One where something objectively good for one person is not seen as a threat/too-much/not-enough to another. A world where softness and humour, emotional intelligence and resilience are abundant. Where they are, in fact, key to every person growing up.
But the role models we’ve been given for male friendships—from cartoons to so-called cult films to books—tell the same story over and over again. I see it there, and then I recognise it back in the men in my life and how they interact:
Humour as a Shield – Instead of serious emotional conversations, many friendships rely on sarcasm and jokes to deflect vulnerability. I do this too—I crack jokes after having brought something heavy. But maybe the key is “as well” rather than “instead.”
Action Over Words – Men are taught to show they care through loyalty, protection, or grand gestures rather than verbal expressions. And sure, we all love a friend who helps us move house. But there’s an unspoken hierarchy of what kinds of “help” matter more.
And—of course—the kind of help men feel comfortable with is valuable (we can outsource it and pay for it), while the kind women have been socialised to excel at is invisible, second class, priceless (which is often confused with worthless). How many men would rather drop everything to help someone move a sofa than send them a message that just says, “I am here if you need to talk”? How can we not see the link with the loneliness crisis that men are going through?
Emotional Distance – When one man gets emotional, the other brushes it off. They tease, they change the subject. Anything to avoid sitting in discomfort. Feelings as an unknown sea, one where they don’t know the depth, one where they could not be in control. Scary.
Roughhousing and Insults as a Love Language – A whole parallel system of affection—designed to exist just inside what’s socially acceptable. The idea of being roasted in public by your friends much more palatable than the thought of holding their hand, even if just for a minute, or extend the hug for more than 3 seconds.
Maybe if grown men put even half the effort into their friendships that eight-year-olds do—if they sent the text, made the plan, showed up—there’d be fewer lonely, burnt-out, emotionally constipated men out there. Maybe the sales of cardigans will raise!
So go on. Be more like Eric and Owen. Make the bracelet. Record and start a Wednesday Waffle video group. Or at the very least, reach out to a friend today. If you feel really brave you might even tell them that you love them.
Amen! Holding space for boys to show an agape love, and not make something of it that it is not, is so important.