An Open Letter to Therapists from Two "Distant" Teen Boys

Dear Therapists,

We imagine that many of your clients tell you exactly what's on their minds. Teenage boys often don't.

We have learned to hide fear, sadness, shame, and loneliness behind "I'm fine," a shrug, or a joke. If you take those responses at face value, you may miss the very struggles that brought us into your office.

When I was in sixth grade, my basketball team lost an important game. After the final buzzer, I started crying. I wasn’t crying just because we lost. I cried because I felt I had let my teammates down. I was embarrassed, frustrated, and overwhelmed. Instead of offering comfort, my coach told me to “toughen up” because boys don’t cry. I stopped crying almost instantly, not because I felt better, but because I learned that showing those feelings was apparently wrong. I can’t even remember the score of that game now. But I remember the lesson: if I wanted to appear strong, I had to hide my emotions.

By the time we become teenagers, we’ve been practicing that lesson for years.

Teenage boys often get labeled as distant, emotionally unavailable, or impossible to reach. Take it from two of those “impossible-to-reach” boys: no matter how calm we try to appear, we hold onto feelings every day. It’s like a balloon slowly filling with pressure. Everyone feels pain, but the issue is that we have learned to keep it hidden.

For me, I hid those feelings behind one simple word. Throughout middle school and the early years of high school, when my parents asked how my day was, I almost always replied, “Good.”

What I actually meant varied by the day. Some days I felt overwhelmed by school. Other days, I was frustrated with basketball. Sometimes, I was just tired from trying to be the person everyone expected. But saying “good” was easier. It ended the conversation before I had to explain feelings I barely understood.

It wasn’t that I didn’t trust my parents. I loved them. I had spent so many years pushing my emotions aside that I no longer knew how to talk about them. Eventually, hiding my emotions became so routine that I did it with the people I cared about most. I even worried that sharing would make me seem like a “bad” son. Many boys learn that being strong means staying quiet.

After enough experiences like that, opening up feels too risky.

We’ve tried before. Too often, we get laughter from friends, dismissal from adults, or judgment from peers. In locker rooms and group chats, being vulnerable becomes a joke. If you admit you’re stressed, someone tells you to “lock in.” If you say you’re overwhelmed, you’re called “dramatic.” Even when those comments are meant as jokes, the message is keep your feelings to yourself.

Many boys grow up believing that asking for help is for “weak” people. The real fear isn’t therapy. It’s what happens after someone finds out. Will my teammates think I’m weak? Will my friends make fun of me? Will people see me differently? Even if those things don’t happen, many boys believe they will. That belief alone often stops them from asking for help.

Of course, not all boys hide their emotions the same way. Some become the class clown to distract from their struggles. Others grow quieter over time. Athletes may feel pressure to always appear mentally strong, while boys who feel isolated may think nobody would care to ask. The actions may look different, but the fear underneath is often the same: if people see what’s really happening, they’ll think less of me.

Something else that might surprise you is that opening up isn't always tough because of our feelings. Sometimes it’s hard based on how the conversation starts. When adults ask one question after another, it can feel more like we're being interrogated than understood. When someone tries to solve the problem before fully listening, it feels like they want answers, not to get to know us. Sometimes, we just need someone who will sit with us long enough that it feels safe to tell the truth.

That’s why your role is so important.

Teen boys need you to reach out before we know how to ask for help ourselves. Partner with schools, talk to sports teams, and normalize conversations about mental health long before a crisis arises.

We ask that you listen without judgment, resist the urge to fix things right away, recall what we shared the last time, or simply enjoy the silence without rushing to fill it. Those little moments build trust.

Therapy shouldn’t be something anyone feels ashamed of. Right now, just getting us in the room and making us feel safe enough to speak may be enough.

If you’re wondering if teenage boys want help, the answer is yes. Many of us have wanted help for years. We’re just figuring out who feels safe enough to talk to.

You might be the first adult who gives a boy permission to be honest.

Best,

The “Distant” Teenage Boys