Redefining Masculinity: Compassion Without Weakness

I found this hanging on the wall at my parents' house. I can attribute a great deal of my foundation to my time in the sport. I'm grateful he gave me the opportunity.

Wrestling has been a part of my life since first grade, when my father, who wrestled when he was younger, started a local program for elementary-aged kids. He knew I would be short and couldn’t jump, and it was clear basketball was never going to be my game. I loved it. The discipline, the lessons, the pride of knowing I could push through almost anything. Yet I also resented it: the brutal weight cuts, the relentless practices, and that unspoken expectation of a ruthless, “win-at-all-costs” mentality I never quite mastered.

I was technically solid and talented enough to handle opponents of average to above-average ability. Still, against the truly tough kids, those who would go on to wrestle at a higher level, I rarely broke through. I carried a quiet sense of failure for years, convinced I was too soft. A feeling I still battle today.

Even after I hung up my singlet, my love for the sport never faded. I faithfully follow Penn State wrestling, and every March, I tune in to the NCAA Championships with the same fervor that most Americans reserve for “March Madness.” Over those three days, my productivity plummets to zero, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

For three days in March, I hole up and watch as many of the NCAA Men's D1 Tournament matches as I can. This year ESPN had all eight mats covered!

What surprised me, however,  was discovering how many of the sport’s elite openly champion Donald Trump. Let me be clear: this isn’t a political post. However, it did prompt me to ask, “Why?” Interestingly, I recently came across an article by Daniel Kennedy, which explores the connection between wrestling’s “strongman” culture and a broader American ideal of masculinity. 

In this post, I’ll explore that tension: how the very qualities that make boys brave and caring can, in some circles, become marks of weakness, and what we can do to raise young men who are both strong and compassionate.

Kennedy, like me, grew up wrestling in rural Pennsylvania, but unlike me, he went on to compete at the Division I level. His insights opened the door to a much larger conversation about how we define strength and what happens when compassion or curiosity are labeled “weak.”

He argues that wrestling’s roots in rural America, a land of blue-collar grit and self-reliance, make it fertile ground for the “strongman” model. In communities that feel ignored or looked down upon by coastal elites, a leader who projects strength with promises of simple, black-and-white solutions can feel like salvation. It’s not about policies so much as symbolism: the image of a champion who never wavers, apologizes, or shows doubt.

Yet this “always-on-hard” mentality overlooks a critical truth: real strength is flexible and pliable. Just as a good wrestler can adjust their tactics mid-match, the most resilient

I feel fortunate that both of my boys spent a few years wrestling, and even more fortunate that they have grown up to be emotionally strong, compassionate young men.

individuals learn to bend without breaking by asking for help, admitting mistakes, and showing empathy towards others.

It’s no accident that emotional intelligence is often derided as “soft.” In a culture that equates vulnerability with defeat, a man who listens deeply, shares emotions, or admits uncertainty risks being labeled less than “manly.”

Kennedy cites this New York Times opinion piece, “The Disappearance of Literary Men Should Worry Everyone” by David J. Morris. In it, Morris provides context for the dilemma when he surmises, “Young men who still exhibit curiosity about the world,” he writes, “too often seek intellectual stimulation through figures of the ‘manosphere,’ such as Andrew Tate and Joe Rogan.”

In other words, when traditional avenues of intellectual and emotional growth feel closed off, the so-called manosphere fills the void, trading nuance for dogma and empathy for machismo.

If we want boys to grow into balanced, resilient men, I’d encourage us to expand our definition of masculinity to include:

Courage in Accountability 

Teach them that owning mistakes is more courageous than hiding them.

Compassion as a Core Competency

Model listening and empathy as strengths, not surrender.

Curiosity Coupled with Critical Thinking

Encourage questioning of themselves, each other, and the world without fear of being “too intellectual.”

Emotional Authenticity

Every emotion, from anger and sadness to joy and surprise, is valid and deserves to be acknowledged. Our willingness to honor our feelings, rather than suppress them, lays the groundwork for self-respect and deeper connection.

Seeking Help Shows Strength

Recognizing when you need support and reaching out isn’t a sign of weakness, but rather a sign of self-awareness and courage. Admitting we don’t have all the answers models healthy coping for those who look to us.

Empathy as Power

The ability to understand and share another person’s experience isn’t a soft skill; it’s a core leadership quality. Men who listen without judgment and offer compassion create environments where everyone can thrive.

After years of battling opponents on the mat, on the field, or internally, the greatest triumph lies in striking a balance between fierce competition and genuine care. By redefining strength to embrace compassion, curiosity, and emotional honesty, we can raise a generation of men who are as unafraid of vulnerability as they are of victory.

How do you believe we can model this compassionate form of strength?