What is it about watching a grown man cry that is so gut-wrenching?
I recently attended a celebration of life for a man who lived just shy of 96 full, meaningful years. It was one of those services that makes you wish you’d known the person better, even if you already knew him well. The stories flowed — some funny, some poignant — each one painting a picture of a life well-lived, deeply loved, and greatly missed.
He spent his adult working life with the Canadian Pacific Railway — a career that spanned decades and helped shape the rhythm of life in towns like ours. The railway wasn’t just a job to him; it was a calling, a thread woven through generations of families here in rural British Columbia.
When he wasn’t working, he was out in the bush, hunting or fishing — two passions he carried with him long after age had slowed his stride. The way his friends and family told it, his love of the land was as deep and steady as his commitment to the rails.
As is often the case at these kinds of gatherings, most of the speakers were men — friends and colleagues who spoke as brothers. And as each one stepped up to the mic, you could see the emotional effort it took to speak. The tightening jaw. The long blink. The deep breath and paused to collect themselves.
And then, the tears.
There is just something uniquely heart-wrenching about watching grown men cry. I don’t know why that is, exactly. Women cry all the time — at movies, at weddings, in frustration, in empathy. No one really bats an eye. It’s practically expected. But when a man’s voice cracks and his shoulders shake — when he surrenders to the tears — it hits differently.
Maybe it’s because we still, in some ways, expect men to keep it together. To be the strong ones. To push emotion down, soldier on, be stoic. And when they don’t — when they can’t — it feels like a crack in the dam. And somehow, it gives everyone else permission to feel more deeply, too.
At this celebration of life, those cracks in the dam opened up all around the room. Each tear from each man felt like a badge of honour for the man they were remembering. A sign of how deeply he was loved, respected, and missed.
It reminded me that vulnerability isn’t weakness. It’s strength in its rawest form.
And that the most powerful tributes don’t always come in the form of carefully written speeches or polished memories — sometimes, they come in unguarded tears.
Janet Crandall is an owner/operator at The Golden Star. She served as the Publisher of The Golden Star from 2003 – 2012 and as an Associate Publisher at The Golden News from 1998 – 2003.
