Silent Battles: Men's Mental Health, Relationships, and the Cost of Immigration

Across cultures, men are often taught to be strong, dependable, and stoic. From a young age, many are told to “man up,” to hold it together, to never cry. But behind closed doors—and often behind calm, composed smiles—too many men carry silent burdens. For immigrant men, particularly those from African backgrounds like the Kenyan-Australian community, these burdens are multiplied by the weight of starting over in a foreign land, under foreign rules, with expectations that never leave.

Migration brings with it hope, opportunity, and growth—but also loss, pressure, and isolation. It’s more than leaving a place; it’s leaving behind a sense of identity, status, familiarity, and often, emotional safety. Many men arrive in Australia with dreams and a deep desire to provide, only to find themselves navigating a complex world where qualifications may be questioned, support systems are few, and emotional expression feels foreign or unsafe.

Relationships—whether romantic, familial, or social—play a powerful role in shaping a man’s mental state. Romantic partnerships are often the first place where cracks begin to show. Migration can introduce tension: separation during the visa process, financial instability, or cultural adjustment. For some men, changes in traditional gender roles become confronting. When a partner becomes more independent, or when their ability to provide is threatened, it can challenge deeply rooted notions of manhood and worth.

Family relationships come with their own unique pressures. Many African men carry the unspoken obligation of success—not just for themselves, but for everyone back home. There’s an internalized responsibility to send money, offer solutions, and carry the pride of an entire family or village. Saying “I’m struggling” feels like betrayal. The shame of appearing weak—especially from a continent where survival often means swallowing pain—can lead to emotional isolation.

Friendships, too, take a different shape in a new land. The ease of connection that existed back home can be difficult to recreate in Australia, where social norms are different and vulnerability is rare in male circles. Here, friendships often stay at the surface. Real conversations about pain, loneliness, or fear rarely come up. Instead, the silence grows louder, hidden behind jokes, drinks, work, or distractions.

In the absence of emotional outlets, some men shut down. Others lash out. The signs of struggle aren’t always loud. They might look like unexplained irritability, detachment from loved ones, sleepless nights, or an obsession with work. For some, it manifests through risky behaviours or self-medication—alcohol, gambling, emotional distance.

What’s often missing is not strength, but support. A space where men can feel safe, not judged. Where they can say, “I’m not okay,” without shame. True healing begins with connection. It begins when a brother, a friend, a partner, or a community leader says, “Talk to me—I’m listening.”

As a community, we must change the narrative. Therapy and counselling should be seen as tools, not taboos. Culturally sensitive mental health services and peer networks tailored for African men are crucial. But it also starts small—with conversations, with creating spaces in barbershops, faith groups, and WhatsApp chats where it’s okay to be vulnerable. It starts with modelling honesty, with checking in on each other, and with reminding the men around us that asking for help is not weakness—it’s wisdom.

To the men reading this: you are not alone. You were not meant to carry everything by yourself. You don’t have to earn rest. You don’t have to be unbreakable. Your value does not lie in how much you give or how much you endure—but in who you are, even in your quietest moments.

Healing is not a destination. It’s a practice. And it begins the moment you decide to speak your truth.