Bill Burr recently said something that stopped me in my tracks:

“Men are allowed to be one of two things: angry or fine.”

It’s funny because it’s uncomfortable.

And maybe it’s uncomfortable because there is some truth buried underneath the joke.

Watch the Bill Burr clip on YouTube

For a lot of men, those really can feel like the only two acceptable settings.

Angry… Or fine.

But what happens when you’re neither? What happens when you’re sad? Lonely? Scared? Overwhelmed? Heartbroken? Grieving? Confused? What happens when something hurts so badly that you don’t know what to do with the feeling?

For some men, the answer has historically been simple: Get angry.

Anger Can Become the Language of Sadness

I’ve spent a lot of time trying to understand my own anger.

I’ve worked on it. I’ve gone to therapy. I’ve learned tools. I’ve gotten better. I’ve had periods where I genuinely thought I had a handle on it. And yet I’m still learning. Since moving into my apartment a little over two months ago, I’ve had plenty of time to think about what is underneath some of my reactions. One possibility I’ve been considering is something I hadn’t really given enough attention to before:

Some of my anger may be connected to grief.

I’m not saying I’ve figured it out. I’m not even saying grief is the source of my anger. I’m saying I’m starting to wonder. Because sadness can be hard to sit with. Anger, on the other hand, gives us something to do.

Sadness says: This hurts.

Anger says: Somebody did this.

Sadness can make us feel powerless.

Anger can make us feel powerful.

And if we’ve spent our lives learning that sadness is weakness, anger can become a much more comfortable place to go.

Instead of saying: “I’m hurt.” We say: “I’m pissed.”

Instead of: “I’m afraid I’m losing something important.” We say: “This isn’t fair.”

Instead of: “I feel rejected.” We say: “How dare you treat me like that.”

Instead of: “I’m grieving.” We say: “Someone needs to pay for this.”

The sadness hasn’t disappeared. We’ve simply given it a different voice.

Anger Isn’t Strength

This is something I’ve had to learn the hard way. Anger can feel like strength. It gives us energy. It gives us certainty. It gives us something to fight against. It can make us feel bigger when we’re actually feeling very small. But feeling powerful isn’t the same as being strong. If I’m hurt and I use that hurt to justify hurting someone else, that’s not strength. It’s a failure to manage what I’m doing with what I’m feeling.

Understanding where anger comes from doesn’t excuse what we do with it. That’s an important distinction for me—and for anyone else working on their anger. There may be a reason underneath the anger:

There may be grief.

There may be fear.

There may be shame.

There may be old wounds.

There may be something that happened years ago that still gets touched by something happening today. But none of that gives me permission to take my emotions out on someone else.

Understanding is not excusing.

Understanding is giving me a better chance to change.

The Injustice Trap

I’ve also started paying closer attention to something else about my own anger.

I can become particularly activated when I perceive something is unjust. Something isn’t fair. Someone is being treated unfairly. Someone isn’t taking responsibility. Something isn’t happening the way I believe it should. And there it is: my perceptions and my beliefs. Something happens. I perceive it a certain way. I attach meaning to it. I decide it is unjust. And suddenly, the emotional response can be much bigger than the situation itself seems to warrant.

That’s something I’m still trying to understand. Why does perceived injustice trigger such a powerful reaction in me? Is it really about what is happening in that moment? Or is something deeper being touched? Maybe it’s an old wound. Maybe it’s a feeling of helplessness. Maybe it’s grief. Maybe it’s the belief that if something isn’t fair, I have to fix it. I don’t know yet. And that’s okay.

I’m learning that recovery doesn’t always mean having the answer. Sometimes recovery means becoming curious about the question instead of immediately reacting to it.

Maybe “Fine” Isn’t the Goal

Here’s where Burr’s observation really gets me. If men are only allowed to be angry or fine, then we’re missing an enormous range of human emotion. I’m not fine today. And I don’t need to be. I can be sad. I can miss people. I can grieve the life I thought I was going to have. I can feel lonely. I can be scared about the future. I can be disappointed. I can feel lost.

None of those things make me less of a man. And none of them require me to become angry. Maybe that’s part of what becoming a healthier man looks like. Not eliminating sadness. Not pretending everything is okay. Not replacing anger with some artificial version of being “fine.”

Maybe it’s learning to say:

• I’m hurt.
• I’m scared.
• I’m grieving.
• I’m lonely.
• I’m overwhelmed.
• I don’t know what I’m feeling right now.

And maybe those words can come out of my mouth before anger comes out of my body.

I’m Still a Work in Prog-Mess

I’m a little over two months into this new chapter of my life. Things aren’t easy. But they are progressing. And I’m beginning to understand that progress isn’t necessarily about feeling better every day. Sometimes progress is recognizing something I couldn’t recognize before. Sometimes it’s catching an emotion before it turns into a reaction. Sometimes it’s sitting with sadness instead of trying to outrun it. Sometimes it’s admitting that I don’t understand myself as well as I thought I did. I’m still working on my anger. I’m still trying to understand why certain situations can light that fuse. I’m still trying to figure out what grief has to do with it. And I’m still learning how to be comfortable with emotions that I once might have tried to bury.

I’m not finished.

I’m not fixed.

I’m certainly not an expert.

As Ted Lasso might put it, I’m a work in prog-mess. But maybe that’s okay. Because I don’t think the goal is to become a man who is never angry. And I don’t think the goal is to become a man who is always “fine.” Maybe the goal is to become a man who is emotionally honest enough to recognize what he’s actually feeling—and strong enough to feel it without making someone else pay for it.

Sadness isn’t weakness.

Anger isn’t strength.

Feel the anger. Investigate it. Don’t automatically obey it.

And maybe real strength is finally being able to tell the difference.