why men can't open up without women

rom-com love is ruining us

I wonder how much of our lives would be different if women didn’t feel such a pressure to be chosen by men, and men didn’t need a woman’s encouragement to access their own vulnerability.

I had an epiphany over a bowl of spicy pho with my boyfriend the other night. We were talking about gendered stereotypes in Hollywood films, and just as I was mid-rant about the lack of emotionally mature male characters in mainstream rom-coms—I had an epiphany.

At the crux of almost every hetero on-screen love story, we’re each assigned a role. And they show up every goddamn time. Without fail. Like clockwork.

They’ve been teaching us how to be in romantic relationships with each other.
But I think they’ve set us up for failure.

According to the Hollywood playbook, the woman’s role in romantic partnership is to get the man to open up—but only after he chooses her. Think Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire, Chad Michael Murray in A Cinderella Story, or literally the entire premise of He’s Just Not That Into You.

The man’s role, is to choose a woman and then, through her love, feel safe enough to reveal his true self—the one he’s too embarrassed to share with the rest of the world. Until she comes along and changes his life, of course. The same films apply here, too.

I used to spend hours watching films like these simply because I loved them, all the while subconsciously learning how to role-play this dynamic in real life. Get him to open up. Then, he’ll never leave you. Understand him better than he understands himself. Then, he’ll love you. He might even declare it in front of a room full of other women. Just because he can’t hold it in. Because he loves—no, needs—you that much.

It felt like second nature. I blindly chased men—who had no emotional bandwidth for me, or for a relationship in general—for almost a decade, because I thought that it was my romantic purpose. I mean, it’s what the stories had told me. And I’ve always been obsessed with stories.

Here are just a few monumental romance stories—from songs, films, and books of my coming-of-age era—that follow these gendered roles with near-academic consistency.

Jerry Maguire – “You complete me.” Enough said.
10 Things I Hate About You – Kat tames the “bad boy” Patrick.
Crazy, Stupid, Love – Cal is a womaniser until Hannah shows him emotional intimacy.
Love & Other Drugs – Jamie only grows up once Maggie’s love makes him face reality.
Good Will Hunting – Will begins healing only after Skylar proves she won’t leave.
Twilight – Bella’s love unlocks Edward’s moral, romantic, and emotional side.
Gossip Girl – Blair spends years addicted to “fixing” Chuck Bass.
The O.C. – Ryan is emotionally numb until Marissa earns his trust.
Pride and Prejudice – Darcy is cold and proud until Elizabeth softens his edges.
Normal People – Connell shuts down; Marianne carries the emotional weight.
Anna Karenina – Anna gives everything; Vronsky remains emotionally shallow.
You Belong With Me – She’d understand him better than his current girlfriend.
Sex and the City – Carrie gives Big years of devotion before he finally chooses her.

Stories aren’t just films. They’re books, TV shows, songs, the people that surround us in real life, who, more often than not—emulate a version of the stories we consume. And surely, that can’t be a coincidence.

Is this where the trope of the ‘bad’ boy comes from? He’s the absolute definition of misunderstood, the ultimate achievement. If you can help a bad boy open up, then you’ve not only hit the Hollywood jackpot, but also the ultimate feminine role in a straight relationship. If you can make a bad boy open up, you can make any man open up. And if you can do that, then you’ll always be fallen in love with. Always chosen. Right? Isn’t that the logic?

Don’t mind me, but my memories are whirring around in my head like bees buzzing around a piece of sticky carrot cake with cream cheese frosting because do you know the amount of men I became obsessed with due to their internal struggle? Do you know how many nights I stayed up concocting masterplans to help them out of their own heads? To show them that there was another way, that they could live a happy life full of love and freshly baked bread and a beautiful woman who would understand all of their complicated emotions they didn’t know how to voice on their own. Didn’t they know how relieved they’d feel, if only they’d choose me?

It actually makes me feel a little sick to my stomach. Who is this story supposed to serve?

Certainly not us women, who are encouraged to give away our bodies and our hearts—a sacrifice we were to accept if we wanted a man to open up, to choose us, to achieve our sole purpose: real love.

And certainly not men either, who are discouraged to talk about their feelings or anything at all really because it might make others uncomfortable or make them themselves seem weak and generally very fucking unsexy. Apparently. Unless, of course, a woman is encouraging and kind and probably naked. Then, it’s mostly safe. No wonder 48 percent of men that cheat on their partners do so because of loneliness, or a lack of emotional connection. It’s got nothing to do with sex. They simply don’t know how else to open up.

But where does that leave us?

It left me naked, in bed with countless broken men who felt that it was my duty to make them feel better. It led me into relationships that made me sick. It made me feel responsible for multiple ex partners’ emotional weight—again, and again, and again. Until I realised that I couldn’t fix them. That this wasn’t the kind of love I wanted. That it might not be real love at all.

Over this bowl of spicy pho with my boyfriend, I learnt that I do still play the role of bringer-upper of the feelings. I tell him how I feel. I ask him how he feels. I make us talk, and we’re getting really good at it. He’s learning how to communicate better, how to ask questions, how to share. I am too. For some reason, it doesn’t feel hard with him. But in that moment, I was aware: I’m always the one doing it.

I also realised he doesn’t have the tools I do. That without my encouragement, he’d probably say nothing at all. And that made me sad—because that’s where all the pain lives: in the silence. That’s where we’re dishonest, where we betray each other, where we let our sadness and our neglect rot into poisonous things like resentment. That’s why the train into work is filled with grey-faced people with nothing behind their eyes. That’s why people end up at cocktail bars with hot strangers they’re not married to instead of going home for dinner.

We can’t keep going on like this. Surely. Ever since the conception of romance as a story, we’ve been telling ourselves this same tired version—albeit, repurposed—and it’s not serving us anymore. I’m not sure it ever did.

But that’s okay. We can change, evolve, grow out of things.

Because if we keep going down this road, I fear men will continue to feel isolated—cut off from their own feelings and from their partners. Women will keep feeling exhausted: carrying not only the burden of needing to be chosen, but also the weight of men’s emotional baggage.

We won’t win.
Or live.
Or thrive.
Or love—at least not in any way that feels effortless, rewarding or (god forbid) joyful.

So, let’s think about love a little differently.

Women, your worth won’t crumble if you’re not chosen.
Men, you’re allowed to open up to people outside of your romantic relationships.
Women, don’t look for a man who needs to be understood and mistake it for an opportunity for love.
Men, don’t mistake a woman prying you open emotionally as proof she’ll love you forever.

We each need to stand on our own two feet in order to find the love we deserve.

While my boyfriend and I still fall into these gendered tropes sometimes, we’re also okay without each other. He’s comfortable to talk about his feelings, with me and with others and I don’t feel the crushing desire to be chosen by him, or anyone—anymore. We’ve both learnt the hard way. Had our hearts broken. Fantasies crushed.

And that’s what makes the difference: our roles in the relationship aren’t working against each other. He’s able to open up without feeling attacked or claustrophobic, and I’m able to ask for care and communication without feeling self-conscious or needy. It’s not perfect—but it’s a hell of a lot better than the version we were—and still are!!!—taught.

Murakami wrote a whole book about how much men crumble without women. At the time I swooned. I thought it was sweet. And in some ways, I do think it’s really beautiful that we need each other. We should lean into it more than we do, admit our insecurities, communicate about our struggles, open up. We’d likely find that we’re more similar than we think.

But there’s this other—larger—part of me that sees this dynamic as a bit of a toxic one.

Like, we’ve been told that there’s this formula for love, which relies on something out of our control (like being chosen or being opened up) when really, we need to learn to do those things for ourselves, before we can fall in love for real. Before we can love someone else in any kind of helpful, fruitful way.

Anyway. That was my epiphany.
I just thought you should know. In case it helps.

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