People often say “I became emotional.” Almost invariably, it means that they cried. They rarely mean that they became overwhelmed with joy, or were overtaken by a white-hot anger. No, it means they wept, or felt like weeping. This turn of phrase strikes me as odd. Why do we say this? Why do we use a euphemism to talk about crying?

I think it has to do with avoiding having to say you were moved to tears. In Western culture, it is weak to cry. We try very hard not to cry. It is shameful, and proof of a lack of control. Using the blanket statement “I became emotional” distances you from the implied action; it’s an arms’ length way to tell the listener what happened, but save yourself from actually having to say the words.

At the bottom of this view of crying as shameful is a writhing pit of gender politics. Traditionally, the emotions came under the purview of women. Women, and feelings, were seen as belonging to the chaos of life, untidy, undisciplined, soft. This was the antithesis of the masculine: ordered, rigorous, and hard. In Shakespeare’s plays, powerful, sympathetic men cry copiously, but tears on a man’s face are also slightingly described as “womanish”. These ideas pursue us to the present day. Many men consider it a virtue not to cry, even when they feel like it. This puzzled me as a child. If we all felt the same way inside, why was it ok for some of us to express it, but not for others? Of course, everyone is built with different ways of expressing feelings, just as we all have different abilities to carry heavy boxes. Our culture’s feelings about public tears are complex. We can’t decide: do they strengthen a woman, and weaken a man?

Are they signs of emotional depth or of weakness? Do we respect leaders who weep, or do we revile them?

I think it is wrong to equate strength with the ability to be impassive in the face of despair. To show feeling, to admit that you have been emotionally moved, is often more courageous. When Michaelle Jean, then our governor general, wept on national television speaking of devastation in Haiti after the massive earthquake of 2010, I had respect for her. Some would say she lost control, that she failed in her office as representative of our head of state. I think she did us a great service. She was moved by compassion, and she shared it with us. She encouraged us to show empathy towards people who literally had their lives swept away from them. It was a great-hearted thing to do, and it took bravery, because it made her vulnerable. Not everyone will agree with this assessment, but I thought it was important. There is more than one way to process loss and grief.

There will always be times when it is inappropriate to cry. It can be a true act of strength to endure pain and to bear witness to suffering without tears. It would be wrong even to say that every person should cry to process their feelings. For many people, it just doesn’t feel right most of the time, and that’s completely fine. But it is amiss to prescribe stoicism as the only way to handle hardship. When my grandmother Anneliese died, my grandmother Edith delivered the news to me and my sister. We were staying in her house, and it was dawn. My sister and I wept, and my grandmother wept with us as we crawled all three of us into her bed to pray the rosary for Anneliese. I will always remember my grandmother Edith’s tears on this occasion with gratitude, because she wept with us. It was an act of solidarity and compassion towards people she loved. It gave us strength, because her tears told us we were not alone in our grief, and that it was alright to express our sorrow.

Let’s re-evaluate the language we use around being emotional. Let’s not distance ourselves from our feelings of joy, anger, or grief. Let’s confuse our colleagues by saying: “I became emotional – I did cartwheels of joy on the third floor!”