November 10th
Growing up as a Punjabi Sikhmale, I was always surrounded by people, family gatherings, Gurdwara (temple) on sundays, cousins everywhere. From the outside, it looked like connection. But something Iโve realized through my own experience and my counselling practicum is that many Punjabi men and many others who were raised within the confines of traditional masculinity may feel a deep loneliness that doesnโt match how busy or social their lives seem.
A lot of us were raised with unspoken rules about emotions: be strong, donโt complain, donโt burden the family. I rarely saw the men in my family express vulnerability. They werenโt cold,just carrying the belief that emotional openness was risky or unnecessary. When emotional expression isnโt modeled, it becomes something we avoid, and that avoidance grows into isolation.
In therapy, I see how this shows up. Many men crave closeness but fear judgment or rejection. They want support but donโt know how to ask. They feel deeply but struggle to put those feelings into words. So connection happens in โsaferโ ways, jokes, group hangouts, sports talk, staying busy. These forms of bonding create familiarity but not always emotional closeness.
This ties into the version of masculinity many of us were raised with: strength measured by silence, responsibility, and keeping everything together. Our parentsโ generation didnโt always have the space to process emotions, and weโve inherited those patterns without realizing it. The result is a quiet loneliness, feeling unknown even while surrounded by people.
But connection doesnโt require dramatic change. It can start with naming your own emotions, sharing one honest moment with a safe person, or allowing yourself to say, โThis week has been tough.โ Therapy can also help build emotional language and challenge old patterns, especially for those of us raised between cultures.
If you relate to this, youโre not alone. Many Punjabi men are carrying the same internal tension: wanting closeness but not knowing how to express it. Loneliness isnโt a weakness, itโs a sign of how much weโve been taught to hold inside. My hope is that talking about this breaks some of the stigma and helps us move toward real connection, one small step at a time.
November 25th
One thing Iโve noticed again and again,in my own life, in my practicum sessions, and in the stories people share with me, is how deeply we avoid uncomfortable emotions. Most of us donโt even realize weโre doing it. We just distract ourselves, stay busy, keep moving, or convince ourselves that whatever weโre feeling โisnโt a big deal.โ
Growing up Punjabi Sikh, emotional avoidance wasnโt something we talked about. If anything, it was normalized. Feeling sad? Go to work. Feeling overwhelmed? Push it down. Feeling guilty or ashamed? Smile through it and donโt burden anyone. It wasnโt intentional harm, it was survival. Our parents and grandparents lived through migration, instability, and economic pressure. There was no space to sit with difficult emotions, so those coping strategies became cultural habits passed down to us.
Learning ACT (Acceptance and Commitment Therapy) made me understand this avoidance differently. ACT doesnโt shame people for avoiding feelings,it explains why we do it. Avoidance serves a purpose. Itโs our mindโs way of protecting us from pain, discomfort, or memories that feel too heavy. When clients tell me they donโt want to think about something, or they numb themselves with distractions, or they keep themselves constantly occupied, it isnโt laziness or weakness. Itโs a protective reflex their nervous system learned long ago.
In therapy, Iโve seen how this shows up in subtle ways. Clients change the subject when emotions get close to the surface. They joke when theyโre hurting. They dismiss their pain before anyone else can. And I recognize these patterns because Iโve used them too. Avoidance feels easier than honesty, especially when youโve grown up in a culture where expressing vulnerability wasnโt modeled. Sometimes avoiding what we feel is the only way weโve learned to function.
But hereโs the paradox Iโve learned from clients and from my own work:
The more we avoid a feeling, the bigger it becomes.
Avoidance gives emotions space to grow in the dark. What starts as fear becomes anxiety. What starts as guilt becomes shame. What starts as sadness becomes numbness. And what starts as emotional discomfort becomes loneliness we donโt know how to explain.
When I work with clients, Iโm not trying to push them into feeling everything at once. Instead, we explore the idea that avoidance is actually protecting something,often a fear of being judged, a fear of being seen differently, or a fear that acknowledging how they feel will make it real. For many Punjabi or South Asian men, avoidance protects an identity we were taught to uphold: strong, collected, reliable. But strength doesnโt mean suppressing our inner world. Strength is being able to turn toward our emotions with curiosity instead of fear.
In ACT, we talk about โmaking roomโ for feelings,not surrendering to them, not drowning in them, but acknowledging their presence. And when clients take even a small step toward sitting with a feeling instead of running from it, something shifts. The emotion softens. The story changes. And their relationship with themselves becomes more compassionate.
Avoidance isnโt a flaw,itโs a learned strategy. But healing begins when we understand what itโs protecting and gently allow ourselves to experience emotions instead of outrunning them. Thatโs the work Iโm learning to do alongside my clients: recognizing the fear underneath avoidance and showing that feeling something, even briefly, is safer than we grew up believing.
If youโve been avoiding something you feel, youโre not alone. Most of us are. But even acknowledging the avoidance is a step toward connection, with yourself, with your culture, and with the parts of your identity that deserve to be heard, not hidden.