After one of my recent posts about the Men, Ugh! workshop, a friend came up to me at a gathering and thanked me. She said it made her think about how her mother used to make cutting jokes about her father — always with a hint of contempt. “I never really considered how much of that contempt I absorbed,” she said.
That really stayed with me.
It reminded me of my own mom when I was a kid. Often when my parents’ friends came over, my Mom would pat my dad’s little pot belly at some point and say, “When I married Harold, his stomach was flat — I don’t know how this happened!”
Back then, I laughed along.
And I made my own jokes about Dad’s belly, too. I remember telling him I liked resting my head on it — it was soft, like a pillow. I was about six then. By ten, I was teasing him that he looked like he could be pregnant.
It all seemed harmless at the time.
But now, as a somatic practitioner, I see things differently.
My dad was never what you’d call fat — he was mostly lean, except for his stomach.
In Core Energetics, we learn when a particular area of the body carries a disproportionate shape or tension, it can signal where a person’s emotional energy is held or blocked. A protruding belly — especially when the rest of the body is relatively slim — can act like a vault, holding unexpressed feelings like grief, shame, longing, and anger.
My dad was mild-mannered and thoughtful. I don’t remember him ever raising his voice.
And when my mom made those jokes, he never protested. He’d just shrug and change the subject.
So yeah. A lot of emotions probably got stored up in that belly.
To be clear, my dad was no angel. He had his own quiet ways of expressing resentment. But that’s a story for another day.
What I’m sitting with now is how much I internalized from watching my mom — not just her words, but the subtle belief behind them.
Years later, when my dad was in his late 80s and undergoing treatment for prostate cancer, the doctors put him on testosterone blockers. I was visiting once when, over dinner, my mom joked, “Your father’s been neutered. He’s not really a man anymore. I’ve got more testosterone than he does!”
Again, my dad didn’t protest. He just looked away.
And I didn’t intervene either, even though I felt the awkwardness.
I could have said, “Mom, That’s not funny.”
Even now, as I imagine saying that, I can hear her reply, “Oh piffle. It’s just a joke. He knows I don’t mean it.”
But I didn’t say anything. And the next day, when she made the same joke in front of the neighbours, I remember feeling embarrassed, and apologizing to them with my eyes.
My mom wasn’t a cruel person. But in moments like that, it was as if she didn’t believe Dad had any feelings to hurt.
And here’s the hard part: sometimes I wonder if I’ve inherited some of that same belief.
I think that’s why it hit me so hard when it got pointed out to me that the Men, Ugh! poster might be painful to read for men who didn’t know the deeper context.
I think that’s why it hit me so hard when it got pointed out to me that the Men, Ugh! poster might be painful to read for men who didn’t know the deeper context.
At first, I wanted to shrug it off — Come on, it’s just a joke, they can take it
But then a quieter voice inside asked:
Wait…
When I chose that title…
When I didn’t pause to imagine how it might land…
When I thought, “It’s a joke! They’ll know I’m kidding.”
Was I reenacting something I didn’t even realize I’d absorbed?
Had I turned into my mother?
I don’t know the answer, and I don’t suppose I ever will. But now that I’ve made it through shame, and I’m on the other side of it, it actually feels good to be pondering these questions.
It’s helping me see my childhood, and my parents, in a new light. Somehow, it’s helping me feel more love for both of them.
Because, what does it mean that I’ve seen this now — how I learned from my mom to forget, sometimes, that men have feelings?
It means I can have more compassion for people who forget that I have feelings too.
When I notice myself bristling at someone’s comment, I can soften a little — maybe they’re just caught in their own inherited story, like I’ve been.
It means I can forgive myself more easily. I can see that forgetting doesn’t mean I’m bad — just human. And I can find my way back to trusting my own goodness.
It also helps me reflect on my parents with more curiosity and less resentment. When my mom said, “When I married Harold, his stomach was flat... I don’t know what happened,” I’m guessing that deep down, what she really meant was: “I thought this life would make me happier than it has.” I think there was a disappointment she was feeling that she didn’t know how to name. So it leaked out sideways.
That’s one of the reasons I’m so energized about returning to this workshop now, as Marilene and I prepare to relaunch it this fall.
It’s not about blaming men.
And it’s not about blaming mothers.
It’s about making space to gently notice what we’ve inherited — and how those stories might still be shaping the way we relate now.
And how we can hold ourselves with compassion through those
explorations.
Thank you for walking through this reflection with me. This work keeps unfolding — in my body, and in my memories.
If any part of this stirred something in you, I’d love to hear about it.
And if you’re feeling drawn to explore your own inherited beliefs, relational patterns, or buried emotions in a deeper, more embodied
way, this is exactly the kind of work I do in one-on-one sessions. Feel free to book a free discovery session if you’re curious.