Cry daddy

I’m a crier. A big one. And my six-year-old daughter, Josie, knows it.

She’s had to endure watching me blubber through a thank you speech to a group of volunteers who helped a nonprofit I started get off the ground. I cried four times during one playdate when Josie and her best friend Zaza repeatedly sang the “I Think You Are Wonderful” song to strangers in a park. Once, I completely came undone during a parade at the Indianapolis Children’s Museum the day before my father-in-law’s funeral. I held Josie’s hand and the tears streamed out while we danced with an employee dressed up as a dinosaur.

I can see that it’s sometimes a little awkward for her to navigate my emotional outpouring. Her reactions have ranged from making jokes about it to outwardly asking me to stop crying in public. It can feel awkward for me, too. Honestly, it always has.

It wasn’t easy being a guy who cries a lot while growing up in the ‘80s and ‘90s. Picture this: my first date ever. Sitting in the movie theater, stressing about whether it was too forward to put my arm around my date while watching the coming-of-age comedy “Angus.” After vacillating between not knowing what to do with my arm and the plot of the movie, something terrible happened. Long-suffering Angus’ dear friend Grandpa Ivan dies. I unsuccessfully tried to hide my leading performance of a cry session in the bathroom of the Mann’s Cinema 8 and didn’t get another date for three years. I sobbed through my brother’s high school graduation when I was a freshman surrounded by the uncomfortable members of my hardcore punk band.

It is still hard, and discomforting, to accept my emotions being so outward. I created a 9-foot radius of no one taking seats around me in the Portland airport as I was choking back tears while writing another story that had me reflecting on how important family (chosen or otherwise) really is.

Despite being self-conscious about the social implications imbued by my innate ability to really just let the tears flow, I am happy Josie sees it. Seeing vulnerability in your parents is powerful. Research shows it. According to a study published by the National Library of Medicine , emotional regulation is socialized through processes, including how parents model emotional reactions in their parenting, marital relationship and in general around the house. In other words, a healthy emotional vibe in a child’s home life helps give them the tools to regulate their own emotions. This leads to better outcomes across their entire lives, allowing them to establish more stable personal relationships and work environments over time.

Kids model what their parents do more than what their parents say. The magic is in the modeling. I let her know it is OK to cry when she is overwhelmed by emotion.

“Being a strong dad is important. You can be a strong dad who cries.”

During my childhood, it was modeled for me that it is shameful to cry in front of others. I have never seen my dad cry. I knew of two alleged instances of him crying, but I never saw any tears in his eyes. Because of my fear of crying in my home life, I felt that I had no choice but to cry in public settings. Then, I had nowhere to go with the shame that I felt when I did cry and was usually made fun of for it. I taught myself to humorously self-deprecate about it. That has morphed over time, and now I like to think it might even demonstrate strength to show to your vulnerability to the world.

Despite what our own family dynamics might have taught us earlier in life, crying is undeniably good for you, according to experts. “I wish more men could cry,” says New York Times bestselling author Dr. Judith Orloff, who penned “The Genius of Empathy” (the foreword was written by the Dalai Lama), when I spoke with her about my propensity for tears. “I am a big fan of crying as a psychiatrist. It is essential and it helps the healing process.” Tears themselves have health benefits and the act of crying reduces stress hormones and increases endorphins. “After crying, you enter a healthier state,” Orloff adds.

There are subtleties to it, however, and Orloff checked in on how I cried in front of Josie before signing off on its positive effects. Crying constantly in front of your kiddo and/or (knowingly or unknowingly) asking them to be your therapist can have negative effects, as it can make the child believe that their parents are out of control. The key, Orloff told me, is to let her know I am still solid and to create balance. “You can be an empathic, sensitive man and a strong man at the same time. Let her feel your strength. Hug her while you cry. Being a strong dad is important. You can be a strong dad who cries.” It turns out that striking that balance is what will help our family — and our daughter — be healthier and happier.

I think we’ve gotten there. But it is bittersweet.

Josie is the only kid in her kindergarten class who doesn’t have a sibling. She brings this up to us regularly, and always cries when she does. She wants a brother or sister, really bad. She plays with dolls almost exclusively as if they are siblings and I often sub in as “brother” during imaginative play sessions. We understand that her seeing her friends and schoolmates have siblings, while she doesn’t, makes her feel lonely, other and sad. That makes Sarah and I sad. We tried to make that sibling happen. A series of increasingly more devastating pregnancy losses led us to the decision to stop trying to have another child. So the last time Josie brought up the fact that she wanted a sibling, I didn’t shy away from my own pain in the matter. I let her know that her mom and I are really sad that she doesn’t have a brother or sister, too. And then, with a big hug, we cried together.

It’s times like these that I’m encouraged by knowing that I can be a strong father who can show her both a solid base and can allow my tears to go free at times. A healthy relationship with your emotions means knowing what you feel and how to express it. Whether that means crying — or not — is OK. Josie is learning what this means for her. And I’m still learning what it means for me. “I think for your daughter it is important that she is true to herself,” Orloff says. “So, she has a father who cries. Let her choose if she wants to cry. That is her strength.”

I have never seen my dad cry, and I only know of two alleged instances of him crying.

I’m seeing that lesson play out in real time now.

When Josie’s elementary school asked us to stop walking our kindergarten-aged children to class to help them gain independence in preparation for moving on to first grade, Josie brought it up to Sarah and me very casually. “I’m fine with it,” she said.

However, it became evident that I was not “fine with it” quite yet. On the first morning I had to say goodbye to her from the sidewalk, she asked, “Are you going to happy-cry?”

As we parked the car and I helped her out of the back seat, I was already overwhelmed with the thought of letting her walk in on her own. And then off she went. I ducked behind a storage container in the parking lot of the elementary school, peeking my head around the corner. I ugly-cried watching her walk through the playground with her head held high, strutting in her shiny pink parka. Josie didn’t look back.

This story appears in the October 2024 issue of Deseret Magazine . Learn more about how to subscribe .