#emotionalsuppression

At some point, you hear it. Not in your head, but in your voice. Everything sounds right. The words land, the tone is measured, and the timing is clean. From the outside, nothing is off. And still, something in you knows it didn’t come from the same place it used to.

That’s what makes it hard to catch. There’s no clear moment you can point to and say, "That’s where it broke." Nothing dramatic enough to justify a reaction. Conversations still flow. Conflict stays low. You’re easier to be with than you’ve ever been, and that gets rewarded. People respond better. The room holds. There’s less tension to manage, less friction to navigate. By every external measure, it looks like progress, like maturity, like you’ve learned how to communicate without making things harder than they need to be.

So you keep going.

Because it works.

But underneath that surface, something else starts to take shape. You’re not speaking less. You’re saying less of what’s actually there. At first, it’s small enough to ignore, a moment where something comes up and doesn’t get said, a reaction that gets softened before it leaves you, a truth that gets reshaped into something easier to receive. None of it feels like a decision. It feels like refinement.

And that’s what makes it dangerous.

You’re still talking. Still engaged. Still present. If anything, you’re doing it better, more measured, more controlled, more aware of how what you say lands. But there’s a shift that doesn’t show up in the words. It shows up in the distance between what you experience and what you express. Small at first. Easy to move past. Not enough to cause a problem.

Until it is.

And then one day, you hear it again. Not in what you’re thinking, but in what you’re saying. The words are right. The tone is right. The timing is right.

But it doesn’t feel like you.

That’s the moment. Not the argument. Not the breakdown. The moment you recognize the difference between what’s true and what’s allowed. And once you recognize it, you don’t un-hear it.

Most men don’t react to that moment. They explain it. They call it growth, maturity, learning how to communicate without creating unnecessary conflict. And some of that is real. Some of it is necessary.

But not all of it.

Because there’s a line, and you don’t feel yourself cross it. You feel yourself adapt. Adaptation feels right when it works. It keeps things stable. It keeps things moving. It keeps you connected.

Until it costs you something you didn’t intend to give up.

Not all at once.

Just enough, each time, to keep things smooth.

Until what’s left is a version of you that fits the room, but doesn’t fully belong to you anymore.

And this is where it becomes shared.

Women, you’ve felt this too.

Not as something you set out to create. Not as something you would name in the moment. But as a shift you couldn’t quite place. A man who became easier to be with, easier to read, easier to move with, and somewhere along the way, harder to feel.

It doesn’t look like something breaking.

It looks like something smoothing out.

And that’s why it gets missed.

Because what feels like stability on one side can be built on what isn’t being said on the other. What feels like connection can be held together by what he’s learned not to express.

Not because he doesn’t care.

Because he’s adapting.

And over time, that adaptation changes the shape of the relationship.

Less friction. Less tension. Less truth.

Until something feels off… and no one can point to why.

That’s not failure. That’s a system doing exactly what it learned would work.

But it comes with a cost.

And eventually, that cost gets clear.

The Silenced Man is about this moment. Not the collapse, but the recognition, the point where a man realizes he’s been editing himself long enough that he can hear the difference between what’s true and what’s allowed. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GJ5K27K8

That’s where things start to change.

Not when everything breaks.

When he finally hears it.

If the first post felt familiar, and the second one made sense, this is the part you don’t move past. Because once you hear it, you don’t get to pretend you didn’t.

And if you’re there now…you already know.

More on Thursday.

With Love,

Conan Hansen

He didn’t lose himself all at once.

There wasn’t a moment when everything broke. No dramatic line in the sand. No declaration that said, " This is where I stop being me." If you asked him when it happened, he probably couldn’t tell you. That’s part of why it works. It doesn’t arrive as a crisis. It arrives as a series of small, almost reasonable adjustments that slowly reshape who he is allowed to be.

It was quieter than that.

He laughed most mornings, out of his own happiness… and got mocked for it.

Not the kind that comes and goes, and not the kind that depends on how the day is shaping up. The kind he chose. The kind that came from being alive, from waking up in a life he believed in, from standing inside something he thought was real.

He was happy to be there. Happy to be with her. Happy in a way that didn’t need to be explained.

And for the first time… he noticed it land differently.

Not the happiness.

The reaction to it.

Something small shifted. Not enough to stop him, not enough to make a scene, but enough to make him aware of himself in a way he hadn’t been before. A flicker of hesitation where there hadn’t been one. A quiet question that didn’t used to exist.

Not in a way anyone would call abusive. Not something you could point to and say, " That right there, that’s the problem." It came wrapped in tone, in timing, in that subtle shift that turns something genuine into something exposed. Maybe it was a look. Maybe it was a comment that sounded like teasing. Maybe it got repeated later, framed just enough to make it land as ridiculous.

But it landed.

And that’s all it takes.

Because now he’s aware of himself in a way he wasn’t before. What was natural is now something he can see from the outside. What was effortless is now something that can be judged. That moment doesn’t shut him down.

It doesn’t need to.

It just introduces a question into the system.

Is this part of me… okay here?

So the next morning, he adjusts. Not completely, that would be too obvious. He keeps most of himself intact, just trims the edge that seemed to create friction. Less volume. Less expression. Less of whatever it was that didn’t land well.

And it works.

The room is easier. The interaction is smoother. There’s less tension, less of that subtle pushback that makes connection feel unstable. Nothing gets said this time. No look, no comment. And the absence of friction reads like success.

So he does it again.

And again.

Each time, the adjustment gets smaller, faster, more efficient. It stops being something he thinks about and starts becoming something he anticipates. He doesn’t wait for the reaction anymore.

He moves ahead of it.

Until one day, he’s not adjusting in response to the environment. He’s pre-adjusted before he even enters it. He already knows what fits, what doesn’t, which parts of him are easier to carry, and which ones create instability. So he brings in the version that works.

Not because it’s true.

Because it’s accepted.

This is how men get silenced.

Not through force, not through ultimatums, not through overt control that can be named and resisted. Through repetition. Through subtle correction. Through the slow conditioning of “that part of you doesn’t land well here.”

It doesn’t feel like control when it’s happening. It feels like adaptation. Like being a better partner, a more considerate man, someone who knows how to read the room and respond accordingly. And in small doses, that’s not a problem. That’s part of being human.

But when that adaptation is one-sided, when it consistently requires him to reduce himself to maintain stability, something else starts to form underneath it.

A version of him that is easier to be with.

And harder to recognize.

Before this turns into something easy to dismiss, let’s widen the frame.

Women, you should read this too.

Not because you’re “the problem,” and not because this is about blame. It’s because this dynamic doesn’t happen in isolation. It’s built, reinforced, and sustained between two people who are both trying, in their own way, to feel stable, connected, and understood.

Mockery doesn’t always feel like control. Sometimes it feels like teasing. Sometimes it feels like honesty. Sometimes it even feels justified. And in the moment, it can feel small enough to ignore.

But impact doesn’t negotiate with intent.

And over time, it changes him. He becomes quieter, not because he has less to say, but because he’s learned what costs too much to express. He becomes more measured, not because he’s grown, but because he’s learned that spontaneity carries risk.

From the outside, nothing looks wrong. He’s still there. Still functioning. Still showing up. If anything, it might look like things have improved.

But something is missing.

Not just expression. Not just personality.

Something he used to generate without thinking about it.

That quiet, self-sourced happiness that didn’t need permission… now filtered, reduced, or gone altogether.

That doesn’t disappear because it was wrong.

It disappears because it was pressured.

And eventually, it gets quiet enough that even he stops looking for it.

Most men don’t experience this as something they can name. They just feel different. More contained. More careful. More aware of themselves in a way that never quite turns off. They call it maturity. They call it growth. They call it learning how to be in a relationship.

But underneath that explanation, there’s a quieter truth.

They didn’t become more themselves.

They became more acceptable.

The Silenced Man is about this.

Not the explosion. Not the breakdown. The quiet erosion. The small edits. The parts of himself he learned to put away… just to keep things stable.

And what it actually takes to bring them back… without turning into someone else in the process.

Some parts of this aren’t written.

They’re carried.

Because most men don’t need to be told how to be better. They need to see, clearly, where they stopped being themselves.

That’s where this starts.

If this felt familiar, there’s a reason.

If it made you uncomfortable, there’s a reason for that too.

Most men don’t lose themselves all at once.

They lose themselves in pieces.

More to come.

With Love,

Conan Hansen

Emotions are not obstacles to functioning – they are essential signals that guide how we relate to ourselves, others and the world.  When individuals are encouraged to “move on” , “stay strong” or “get over it” emotional expression can become constrained. Over time, this pattern may develop into emotional suppression -the conscious or unconscious avoidance of feeling, processing, or expressing internal experiences.

What is Emotional Suppression?

Emotional suppression involves inhibiting the outward signs of inner feelings. Rather than processing emotions, individuals push them aside, often relegating them to the subconscious. These unprocessed emotions do not disappear: instead, they continue to influence thoughts, behaviours, and physiological responses.

According to Peter A Levine, unresolved emotional experiences – particularly those linked to trauma – remain stored in the body and nervous system. In Healing Trauma, he emphasizes that unprocessed emotions can manifest as chronic stress, maladaptive coping behaviours, and even physical illness.

Why Do People Suppress Emotions?

Emotional suppression is rarely arbitrary; it is often shaped by personal history, environment, and learned coping strategies. 

Psychological Defence Mechanism

Separation can function as a protective response. When emotions such as fear, shame or overwhelm, the mind may block them to preserve stability. 

Fear Of Judgement

Concerns about how others perceive vulnerability can discourage emotional expression, especially in the performance – driven or socially evaluative environments.

Past Negative Experiences

Individuals who have been dismissed, criticized, or punished for expressing emotions may learn to internalize rather than share them.

Need For Control

 Some individuals equate emotional expression with loss of control and instead adopt emotional numbing as a way to maintain composure.

Cultural And Family Conditioning

 In certain social or familial contexts, emotional restraint is framed as strength, while expression is perceived as weakness.

Fear of Conflict or Rejection

Avoiding emotional disclosure can feel safer than risking disagreement, rejection or relational tension.

Limited Emotional Awareness

Some individuals struggle to identify and articulate their emotions, a phenomenon linked to low emotional literacy.

The Psychological and Physiological Impact

Chronic emotional suppression is associated with a range of mental health challenges. Over time, the effort required to inhibit emotions increases psychological strain, often leading to:

Anxiety and depressive symptoms

 Irritability or sudden emotional outburst

 Interpersonal difficulties and misunderstandings

 Sleep disturbances and fatigue

 Maladaptive coping strategies, including substance use. 

Moving Toward Emotional Integration

The goal is not unfiltered emotional expression, but rather regulated and conscious engagement with emotions. Emotional processing is a skill that can be developed gradually.

Increase Emotional Awareness

Begin by identifying and naming emotions without judgment. This builds emotional literacy.

Engage in Regulating Practices

Activities such as mindfulness, yoga and breathing exercises can help individuals safely access and process emotions.

Use Expressive Outlets

Journaling, art, music, or movement – based activities provide non – verbal pathways for emotional release.

Leverage Social Support

Speaking with a trusted individual can help externalize and contextualize internal experiences.

Allow Emotional Release

Emotional release – whether through crying, movement, or reflection – can restore psychological balance.

When Professional Support Matters?

If emotional suppression begins to affect sleep, relationships, work performance, or physical health, professional intervention can provide structured support. Therapy offers a safe environment to explore underlying causes, build emotional awareness, and develop healthier coping mechanisms. 

At Imperfect Psychotherapy, individuals are supported in understanding the underlying patterns that contribute to emotional suppression. Through a compassionate and structured approach, therapy helps clients reconnect with their internal experiences, process unresolved emotions, and build healthier ways of relating to themselves and others. This process is not about forcing emotional expression, but about creating safety, awareness, and integration over time.

Emotional suppression may serve as a short-term protective mechanism, allowing individuals to navigate challenging situations without becoming overwhelmed. However, when it becomes a habitual response, it can limit emotional awareness, strain relationships, and impact both mental and physical well-being.

Recognising and addressing emotional suppression is an important step towards psychological health. By developing emotional awareness, practising regulation, and seeking support when needed, individuals can move toward a more balanced and authentic way of experiencing and expressing emotions.