WTAF. I Cried at a Kids’ Film. And That’s How I Knew the Work Was Working.

It caught me off guard.

Six years of work. Heavy work. Quiet work. The kind no one applauds because most of it happens behind closed doors.

Six years of facing myself head on.
Six years of tackling disappointment in the moment instead of storing it.
Six years of learning how to stay present when things feel uncomfortable instead of escaping them.

I’m not perfect. There’s always room to sharpen. But I can honestly say I’m happy with who I am most of the time. I don’t run from problems. I don’t outsource blame. I lead myself better than I used to.

So when I found myself in floods of tears watching IF one quiet morning with my youngest, my first thought was exactly that.

WTAF.

It wasn’t even a particularly emotional scene. It wasn’t tragic. It wasn’t devastating. It was symbolic. Subtle. But it landed heavy.

And that’s what confused me.

Because I wasn’t sad.

It was meaningful.

So Picture The Moment

It was my weekend with the kids.

Four children. Different ages. Different needs. Different personalities. And if you’re a parent, you know the quiet one-to-one moments are rare. You fight for them.

The older ones were still asleep after being up half the night. The house was calm. My youngest, eight years old, curled up next to me.

So, we put a film on. IF with Staring Ryan Reynolds 

The message was simple. Don’t lose the kid in you.

And as I sat there beside her glued to the screen, I felt something shift.

Not a breakdown.
Not grief.
Not overwhelm.

Recognition.

What The Work Actually Does

When you start doing real internal work, people assume you become harder.

More resilient.
More disciplined.
More solid.

And yes, you do become solid.

But something else happens.

When you stop numbing, you feel more.
When you regulate properly, you become less defended.
When your nervous system feels safe, it softens.

For years I’ve been building structure. Journalling. Reflecting. Taking ownership. Pausing before reacting. Increasing capacity instead of creating chaos.

That structure now holds.

And when the structure holds, emotion can move without drowning you.

That morning, I wasn’t overwhelmed.

I was moved.

There’s a difference.

Sadness Shrinks. Meaning Expands.

Sadness drains you. It leaves you smaller.

Meaning stretches you. It leaves you expanded.

The physical sensation can feel identical. Tight chest. Lump in the throat. Tears you weren’t expecting.

But the aftertaste tells the truth.

After those tears, I didn’t feel fragile.

I felt connected.

Connected to her.
Connected to myself.
Connected to time.

Because that’s what it really was.

Time.

At eight years old, mornings feel endless.

At my age, I know they aren’t.

One day she won’t curl up beside me. One day the house will be quiet in a different way. One day I’ll wish I could rewind to a simple Saturday morning and press pause.

That awareness makes moments sacred.

Sacred things feel heavy.

Not because they’re sad.

Because they matter.

The Boy And The Man

Most men are still at war with the boy they used to be.

Ashamed of him.
Disconnected from him.
Embarrassed by how imaginative or sensitive he once was.

So they harden over him.

Or they bury him.

That morning, I didn’t feel ashamed of the boy in me.

I felt like the man I’ve become had finally made peace with him.

I wasn’t losing the kid in me.

I was allowing him to sit there beside my daughter without embarrassment.

That’s integration.

That’s what real growth looks like.

Not louder. Not softer.

Integrated.

Regulated Strength

There’s a version of masculinity that says tears mean you’re slipping.

There’s another version that says tears are proof you’re healed.

Both miss the point.

Regulated strength looks different.

It’s not stoic shutdown.
It’s not emotional theatre.

It’s grounded presence that can feel without flinching.

I didn’t spiral afterwards.
I didn’t question myself.
I didn’t sit there thinking something was wrong with me.

I noticed it.

I stayed with it.

And now I’m reflecting on it.

That’s emotional capacity.

Most men cry when something breaks.

I cried because something mattered.

There’s a difference.

Leadership In Tender Moments

We talk a lot about leadership when things are hard.

Pressure. Conflict. Responsibility.

That’s Lion State. It shows up in quiet moments too. 

Leadership is holding yourself steady when something meaningful lands.

Integrity is allowing tenderness without shame.

Ownership is understanding your emotion instead of suppressing it.

Nurture is strength applied gently.

For years, I’ve focused on becoming solid.

That morning showed me I’ve also become safe.

Safe enough for emotion to move.
Safe enough to soften.
Safe enough to let meaning land without panicking.

Nothing Is Wrong

If you’d told me six years ago that I’d cry at a film with my daughter and not feel embarrassed, I probably would have laughed.

Back then, emotion felt threatening.

Now it feels informative.

The tears weren’t instability.

They were alignment.

They were my nervous system saying.

This matters. Stay here.

And I did.

The Realisation

So what actually happened to me?

I became emotionally available without becoming emotionally unstable.

I became strong enough to feel.

I stopped confusing softness with weakness.

The work didn’t make me harder.

It made me capable.

Capable of holding strength and tenderness at the same time.

That morning wasn’t a crack in the armour.

It was proof I don’t need the armour like I used to.

And if that’s what six years of facing yourself builds.

I’ll take the tears.