A Psychologist’s Narrative — Understanding Men’s Mental Health Through a Positive Systems Lens

By: Dr. Bob Carey

In a recent Globe & Mail opinion piece (Nov. 10, 2025), Rob Whitley and Erin O’Toole highlight a sobering reality: men and boys in Canada carry a disproportionate share of the country’s mental health burden. They point to statistics showing that roughly three out of four suicide deaths in Canada are among males, and that male suicide rates remain nearly three times the rate for females. These trends extend to other harms too—such as higher rates of toxic drug deaths, school disengagement among boys, and social withdrawal among adult men. 

The authors argue that much of this suffering has gone unseen because it’s filtered through cultural expectations of stoicism, self-reliance, and emotional restraint. They advocate for a shift in how mental health services, community spaces, and societal supports are designed—moving beyond one-size-fits-all models and toward environments that help men find belonging, purpose, and connection. This includes informal “third places” where men can gather without stigma, community activities built around shared interests, and services tailored to men’s experiences rather than traditional clinical settings alone. 

The central message is simple: if we are to improve mental health outcomes for Canadians broadly, we cannot overlook the unique challenges faced by boys and men.

When I read that article, what stood out to me wasn’t just the stark numbers—it was how easily we miss the why beneath those numbers. As clinicians and caregivers, we often see behaviour like withdrawal, substance use, or emotional silence as discrete problems. But through the lens of the Positive Systems Approach, I’m reminded that behaviour is communication, not chaos.

Consider this: men are three times more likely to die by suicide—a statistic repeated in Canadian health data and government reporting. If we stop at the statistic, we miss the deeper story of what’s happening inside individuals, families, and communities.

What isn’t captured in those numbers, but what the Globe & Mail authors hint at, is the pressure men carry: the cultural imperatives to be strong, self-sufficient, and unshakeable. Data from surveys commissioned by Movember reveal that many Canadian men still feel intense social pressure to present emotional toughness and to hide vulnerability—often at great cost to their inner lives. 

From a systems perspective, this isn’t just an individual “behaviour problem.” What we see on the surface (emotional restraint, avoidance of help-seeking, disengagement) emerges from an entire system—a system that includes cultural norms, relational expectations, family dynamics, community structures, and even economic roles.

In families, for example, a young boy may learn early on that emotional expression invites judgment. In schools, boys may be discouraged from vulnerability because it’s labeled “weak.” In workplaces, traditional norms often reward problem-solving over emotional attunement. Layer onto that the broader social forces—like unemployment in traditionally male industries or the erosion of social spaces where men historically found belonging—and you have a constellation of pressures that shape how distress is experienced and expressed.

The Positive Systems Approach says: instead of asking “What’s wrong with him?” we ask “What role does this behaviour play in this person’s world?” What function has silence served? What unmet need underlies withdrawal? What messages has this young man internalized about strength and help-seeking?

Understanding symptom behaviour as adaptive (even if unhealthy) allows us to shift from blame to inquiry. In the case of boys and men, emotional silence can be adaptation to a social world that punishes vulnerability.

The Globe & Mail article calls for spaces where men can find purpose and belonging. This aligns beautifully with what the Positive Systems Approach would predict—healing is not found in isolation, but in connection. Men heal not because they suddenly feel better, but because their relational environment changes. They find people who reflect back dignity and safety, not judgment.

This is why community programs that encourage activity and connection—like outdoor groups, shared workshops, or peer circles—are not “nice extras.” They are central interventions. They change the system around the individual. They provide alternative narratives to stoicism and suppression.

I also appreciate that the authors reject one-size-fits-all solutions. In a systems framework, we see that every individual’s world is complex. A man in a remote community may need different supports than a young man in an urban university. Efforts that honor context—cultural background, social network, personal history—are more likely to create true shifts.

So what does this look like in practice?

It looks like programs designed not just to treat symptoms, but to rewrite the relational scripts around mental health. It looks like conversations that start with curiosity rather than judgment. It looks like community spaces that allow men to show up as they are, without hiding pieces of themselves. It looks like training parents, teachers, and leaders to invite vulnerability, not shame it.

Most of all, it looks like listening deeply. Numbers and reports call us to attention, but stories and behaviours call us to care.  We owe boys and men more than policy. We owe them a system that sees them—not as deficits to be fixed, but as whole people embedded in a network of meaning, connection, and possibility.  If we commit to that—not just in words, but in how we shape families, schools, workplaces, and communities—that’s when we begin to challenge the silent suffering beneath the statistics and help men and boys thrive rather than merely cope.