The Emotional Playbook: Why Boys at My School Have Two Modes

I work at a coffee shop three days a week after cheer practice. I'm also on the student council and I have a group chat with eleven girls that has been active every single day since freshman year. I say this not to brag but to establish: I talk to a lot of people. I hear things.

And here's what I've noticed: the boys at my school have two emotional modes.

Mode 1: Nothing.

"How are you?" "Good." "How was the game?" "Fine." "Are you okay after the breakup?" "Yeah."

Mode 2: Explosion.

Fight in the hallway. Punching a wall. Screaming at a ref. Road rage in the parking lot. Texting something unhinged at midnight and deleting it by morning.

There's nothing in between. No "I'm kind of stressed." No "That actually hurt my feelings." No "I need to talk about something."

My friend Daniela broke up with her boyfriend last month. She cried, called me, called our group chat, journaled about it, talked to her mom, ate ice cream, cried again, and by the following week she was processing it out loud in a healthy way. That's not because she's weak. That's because she has a system.

Her ex? He posted a gym selfie two hours later with the caption "Different." Three days after that he got in a fight at a party. A week later he texted her at 1 AM asking to talk. The feelings were there the whole time. He just had nowhere to put them.

Here's what's wild to me: my girl friends and I talk about everything. We have a vocabulary for our emotions that's honestly kind of advanced. We say things like "I'm not mad, I'm disappointed and also a little jealous and I need to sit with that." We workshopped that language. We practiced it. It didn't come from nowhere.

But the boys? Their friend groups don't do that. They roast each other. They play video games side by side in silence. Their version of emotional support is "that's tough, bro" and then changing the subject.

I'm not saying one way is right. But when the only tool you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail. And when the only emotion you're allowed is anger, everything turns into a fight.

My little brother is twelve. Last week he came home upset because his best friend ditched him for another group. He was on the verge of tears. My dad—who I love, who is a great dad—said, "Don't worry about it, mijo. Those kids don't matter."

I pulled my brother aside later and said, "It's okay to be sad about that. Your friend hurt your feelings and that's real."

He looked at me like I'd given him permission to breathe.

That's what kills me. The permission. Boys shouldn't need permission to feel things. But somewhere along the way, somebody revoked it, and now they're walking around emotionally unlicensed, crashing into everything.

“Boys shouldn't need permission to feel things. But somewhere along the way, somebody revoked it, and now they're walking around emotionally unlicensed, crashing into everything.” Click to tweet →

I don't have a big solution. I'm sixteen and I still can't parallel park. But I know this: the boys in my life are not emotionless. They're not robots. They're not "just guys being guys."

They're people who were handed a playbook with half the pages ripped out, and nobody told them there was a full version.

“They're people who were handed a playbook with half the pages ripped out, and nobody told them there was a full version.” Click to tweet →

My group chat has been active every day for two years. Eleven girls, processing the world together, one voice note at a time. I wish the boys had that. I really do.

Maybe some of them will read this and start.