The Man in the Room: Reclaiming Masculinity in the Healing Professions
Every time I step into the therapy room, I feel it: the weight of being a man in a space people rarely expect to see one.
In healthcare, in social care, in coaching, and now in psychosexual therapy, I have walked through professional landscapes that are still often seen as “women’s work.” It’s subtle, often unspoken. But it’s there. The gentle surprise in a client’s eyes. The curious question in a colleague’s voice. Sometimes even my own quiet inner voice asking:
"Do I belong here?"
After 15 years working in healthcare and social care, I have learned one thing very deeply: healing isn’t about gender. But the world doesn’t always see it that way.
The quiet assumption: Men don’t belong in the work of feelings
From the outside, being a psychosexual therapist - let alone a male psychosexual therapist - may seem like a contradiction. Sexuality, vulnerability, emotions, intimate dialogue - all too often these have been labeled as “soft skills,” implicitly coded as feminine territory.
And yet, this work is not soft. It is raw, courageous, demanding. Sitting with clients as they navigate sexual shame, relational wounds, performance anxiety, identity confusion - it requires strength. Not the kind of strength that dominates or performs, but the kind that stays.
That remains present when discomfort rises.
That witnesses without needing to fix.
That allows the client to explore parts of themselves they’ve kept locked away for years.
The cost of silence for men
In my work with men and people with penises across identities - I see again and again how deeply the cultural training of masculinity wounds us. Many of us were never taught to speak openly about desire, let alone sexual difficulty. For many, the only models we’ve had for intimacy are shaped by performance, conquest, or silent endurance.
When things go wrong: erection difficulties, premature ejaculation, loss of desire, anxiety around sex - the shame runs deep. And when shame is met with silence, it grows.
Many of my male clients arrive carrying not only sexual difficulties, but a lifetime of unspoken questions:
“Am I normal?”
“Am I enough?”
“Why can’t I fix this?”
“If I admit this, what does it say about me as a man?”
Often, these questions have lived in their bodies for years, unspoken, unexamined. And because these struggles are rarely discussed openly — especially between men — many feel completely alone.
Why choose a male therapist?
It’s a fair question. Some people feel more comfortable speaking to women about intimate topics. Others may even assume women are naturally better suited to conversations about feelings, vulnerability, or sexuality. And for some, working with a male therapist may initially feel risky or unfamiliar.
But for many of my clients, especially men, there’s a unique kind of healing that happens in the presence of another man who can hold space without judgment. Not as an authority figure. Not as a competitor. But simply as another human being who understands - from lived experience - the pressures, expectations, and silent struggles that often come with masculinity.
As men, many of us were never shown models of healthy, emotionally attuned male relationships. We learned to hide vulnerability. We learned that discussing sex openly was either taboo or performative. But healing happens when someone says:
"It’s okay. You don’t have to pretend here. You are not broken."
A male therapist can offer something deeply powerful: the opportunity for men to experience emotional safety with another man — a chance to rewrite old scripts about competition, shame, or silence.
That’s not to say women therapists cannot provide incredible support - of course they can and do. But sometimes, a man sitting with a man, holding space for vulnerability, creates a uniquely powerful dynamic. It becomes an embodied reminder that being fully human includes tenderness, uncertainty, and open-hearted dialogue for all of us.
My own journey into this work
I didn’t start here. My career began in healthcare and social care, fields where I supported people in crisis, in grief, in transition. Over the years, I became an accredited senior coach, working with individuals facing burnout, relational breakdowns, identity crises, and emotional blocks.
But time and again, I saw that sexuality — in all its complexity — sat quietly in the background. Often unspoken. Often carrying layers of shame, trauma, and unmet need.
Training as a psychosexual therapist was, for me, a natural next step. Not because I want to teach people how to “perform better,” but because I want to help them experience their full erotic and emotional selves — free of shame, free of rigid expectations.
We need more men in this work
There is nothing inherently feminine about vulnerability. There is nothing inherently masculine about silence. These are learned roles. And too often, they trap us.
The healing professions need more men who are willing to sit in the discomfort. To model presence, not perfection. To offer safety, not solutions. To embody a kind of masculinity that allows for softness, for curiosity, for uncertainty.
I believe that when men witness other men holding space for vulnerability — not trying to fix it, but simply allowing it — something profound shifts. It gives permission. It opens doors. It creates new possibilities for intimacy, both with others and with ourselves.
The work continues
At JKL Therapy Center, I sit with men, women, and people of all identities as they explore the most intimate parts of their lives. I do this work as a man - not in spite of it. My presence in the room is both ordinary and revolutionary.
Because at its core, this work is not about gender.
It’s about being human.
And maybe, being a man who chooses to walk into these spaces fully present, fully witnessing is one small way to challenge the old story of what it means to be a man.
