I cried at the end of “How to Train Your Dragon.” I’m talking lump-in-the-throat, dragon-soars-into-the-sunset crying. I was moved. And I don’t regret it.
That wasn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last.
I cried when I watched “Casablanca.” What kind of person sends Ingrid Bergman away like that and still walks off with his dignity intact? I cried then, too. Hollywood heartbreak, wartime sacrifice, emotional sleight-of-hand—it got me.
But that’s not all.
I cried when I proposed to my fiancée. She cried first. Then I cried because she cried. Then she cried more because I cried. Somewhere in the middle of this teary back-and-forth, I think I asked the question.
I’ve cried when each of my daughters got into the colleges and graduate schools of their choice. I cried again when my older daughter got married. A dignified, well-timed sniffle at first—then a full parental deluge when she walked down the aisle hand in hand with me. You try not to cry when your child, the baby you once buckled into a car seat, is standing next to you wearing white lace.
I cried when each of my parents died. That’s the kind of crying that doesn’t follow a neat, linear path. It sneaks up on you. It arrives at stoplights, in the produce section, while reading old letters from them I find from time to time. It shows up at 3am, demanding your attention when the rest of the world is silent. That kind of crying is a language of its own. Proof of life, and loss, and love.
And I absolutely bawled my eyes out at Yad Vashem—the Holocaust memorial in Jerusalem. There are no words that can fully prepare you for the unbearable weight of that place. The names, the photos, the shoes, the silence. In that space, tears felt like the only proper form of speech. It was grief, reverence and moral reckoning all rolled into one.
Come September, when I say my vows at my wedding, I know I’ll cry then too. I won’t fight it. Why would I? There are few moments in life that deserve everything you’ve got, voice shaking, hands trembling, heart open. I plan to meet that moment with no emotional restraint whatsoever.
Still, I’m aware there’s a lingering social script, especially for men. We’re trained, subtly and not-so-subtly, to contain ourselves. To compose, not collapse. To “man up,” as if manhood were something that required constant suppression of emotion.
Crying doesn’t mean something’s wrong. Sometimes it means everything is gloriously right. Or impossibly beautiful. Or heartbreakingly human. It’s what happens when the feelings we carry around—grief, joy, fear, awe—suddenly outrun the container we’ve tried to keep them in.
Tears are not failure. They’re not weak. They’re simply the soul leaking out a little, because the moment is too full for silence.
I’ve cried over animated dragons, old black-and-white romances and wedding speeches. I’ve cried because someone said “yes,” and because someone said goodbye. I’ve cried for people I’ve lost and people I’ve loved. And every time, I’ve felt more human afterward.
So let’s normalize crying. Not just in the darkened corners of hospital rooms or the far ends of funerals. Let’s normalize crying in theaters and living rooms and airports and, yes, at weddings. Let’s cry when we’re proud. Let’s cry when we’re moved. Let’s cry when a kid graduates, or a dog is loyal, or a hero finally comes home.
Let’s cry because life is full, and sometimes it needs to spill over.
And let’s not be shy about it.
There is a kind of grace in crying; a moment when the self is stripped of artifice. You’re not performing. You’re not posturing. You’re just feeling. And that, in its own quiet way, is brave.
So if you happen to see me in a theater, tissues in hand, wiping my eyes while a dragon flies into the sunset or Humphrey Bogart sacrifices love for liberty—just know that I’m not embarrassed. I’m living fully. And if you’re crying too, you’re in good company.
Come September, I’ll stand in front of my fiancée and say words I never thought I’d say again. I’ll cry, and she will too. And it will be perfect.
Because sometimes the best way to say, “I love you,” or “This matters,” or “Thank you for this life,” is to let the tears speak for you.
