Why Brotherhood Is So Important

Someone sent me this post on Instagram and asked how I felt about it. After revisiting this thread some weeks later, I thought it would be cool to share those sentiments and dive a bit deeper. Y’all know I like to zoom out, look at the macro, and find value in the ways we can all relate and grow from shared consciousness. So yea, we as men are taught how to connect in a very specific way. From early on, we’re conditioned to bond through activity. Sports, video games, arguing about music, clowning each other, chasing women. All of that. And while none of it is inherently wrong, it becomes a problem when that’s all we know how to do. We’re not really taught how to just sit with each other and say, “Yo, I’ve been struggling,” or “I miss you, bro,” without it feeling awkward or suspect. Vulnerability is policed even among friends. You share too much, and suddenly you’re doing too much. So we get used to being surface-level. We might be in the same room, but we don’t always feel seen. We can have a hundred homies around and still feel isolated.

And for a long time, I thought that was normal. Until I met my core group of friends. They taught me that vulnerability was okay. We’ve shared our struggles and made it a point to connect on that level. To really sit down and have the hard conversations with each other, flaws and all. And while I know that’s not common for everybody, I’m exceedingly grateful for those brothers.

Because honestly, I’m not sure where my emotional intelligence would be without those moments of genuine connection we shared. Now that we’ve all kind of grown up, started families, and pursued careers, it’s not like those college days where we could spend nights and days together.

After moving away from my hometown, I didn’t realize just how much I needed that closeness until I no longer had access to it. I found myself missing something, without knowing what it was. It was hard to put a finger on it, until that post was sent to me.

That type of loneliness is different. It’s not loud. It’s a quiet, creeping kind of ache. You can function through it. Laugh through it. Succeed through it. But it lingers. And I know I’m not the only one who’s felt that.

So where do we even begin to unpack this? How do we unlearn decades of emotional restriction?

I think it starts with admitting we need each other. Not just in crisis, but in joy. In confusion. In stillness. It means reaching out without an excuse. Texting “I love you, bro” without needing to be drunk first. It means showing up for each other without always needing a reason. Because sometimes, being seen and reminded that you matter is reason enough.

We talk about protecting Black women, and yes, we absolutely should. But I also think we need to start protecting Black men from isolation. From the performance of masculinity that’s killing us inside. From the idea that we have to carry everything alone and still smile through it. Brotherhood shouldn’t be built only in struggle. It should be built in softness, in growth, in accountability, in joy.

My closest friendships have come from shedding that armor. From letting myself be honest. From being able to say, “Yo, I’m proud of you,” and actually mean it without deflecting with a joke. From being able to sit with my brothers in silence and still feel at peace. That type of connection feels rare. But it shouldn’t be. I need more of it. And I think a lot of us do.

I’m not saying every man needs to cry on his homeboy’s shoulder every week. But I am saying we should have the option. We should have the space. We should be able to be messy, confused, overwhelmed, joyful, or quiet without having to shrink or perform just to maintain the illusion of strength. Because what is strength if it isolates you?

I think about the way women show up for each other. The softness. The celebration. The way they hold space for each other to vent, to unravel, to rebuild. And I wonder why we don’t do that for ourselves. Why don’t we normalize checking in, not just checking up? I get it.

Some of us weren’t raised with that model. Our fathers didn’t know how. Our older brothers didn’t show it. The world taught us early that emotional restraint was survival. That strength meant silence. That real men didn’t need support, they were the support. But I’m here to say that narrative is tired. And it’s hurting us more than it’s helping.

We deserve relationships that pour back into us. That remind us we’re not machines. We’re not warriors twenty-four seven. We’re human. Sons. Friends. Dreamers. Healers. And we need each other, not just to do, but to be with. Brotherhood, when it’s real, is a form of healing. It’s being able to say, “I got you,” and actually follow through.

It’s helping your bro fix his resume or just sitting in silence when he doesn’t know what to say. It’s speaking life into him when you see he’s slipping. It’s calling out patterns, not from judgment but from love. It’s being proud of each other, not just in public, but in private too.

To the men reading this, especially the ones who’ve been holding it in: I see you. I know what it’s like to want connection but feel like you don’t know how to ask for it. I know what it’s like to want to be close without feeling weak. And I’m telling you, needing people doesn’t make you soft. It makes you alive.

We don’t have to keep pretending. We don’t have to keep bonding only through struggle. We can build new rituals. We can create new norms. We can change the narrative for the next generation. Because I promise you, when brotherhood is done right, it hits different. It’s the kind that makes healing feel less like a solo mission. It’s the kind that lets you exhale, finally, because you realize you’re not in this alone.

So here’s to that kind of connection. To more “yo, I got you” and fewer “I’m good, bro” moments when we know we’re not. To more deep conversations that don’t need a drink to start them. To more men hugging without rushing to pull away. To redefining strength, not as the absence of emotion, but the courage to share it. Brotherhood should feel safe. It should feel like truth. It should feel like home. And if you’ve been longing for that, you’re not soft. You’re just human. And you deserve it.