Beyond tears: A life fully felt

My writer friend, Ardis of The Reflective Pen, recently wrote a poignant blog post about crying. In it she describes how too soon after our celebrated first cries out of our mother’s womb, we are hushed to be quiet, to be strong—no need for tears. She invites her readers to reflect on whether a person can live without tears. And whether that is even healthy. As I read her words, she sees stifling a cry as stifling feelings.

Let me begin my reflection by sharing something unusual: I cannot recall crying more than a dozen times in my 70+ years of living. Not even as a child. (I did, however, have the self-soothing childhood habit of sucking my thumb in bed while rubbing holes in my wool blanket longer than some, perhaps until five or six. But that, apparently, is a completely different story, psychologically speaking.)

It may astonish you, but I didn’t cry at any time during the long months of arduous cancer treatments. I didn’t cry the times family, friends, and partners betrayed me. I didn’t even cry when my parents died.

In the four decades of living with my soulmate, he can recall seeing me cry only once or twice, and he can’t remember when or why (I asked him today). Well, neither can I, although I agree it’s no more than twice and for not more than a few minutes. No buckets full of tears from me, ever.

Should it be needed (and I don’t believe it is), in my defence, I quote Saint Ignatius:

Some indeed have tears naturally, when the higher motion of the soul makes itself felt in the lower, or because God our Lord, seeing that it would be good for them, allows them to melt into tears. But this does not mean that they have greater charity or that they are more effective than others who enjoy no tears.

Saint Ignatius

So, borrowing again from Ardis, was I told early in my life some version of, “Big girls don’t cry”? Maybe—shrug. I don’t recall that I was, but then again, I have few clear memories from my childhood. I certainly have no recollection of anything one might label traumatic. What I do remember is being considered a happy child, despite the fiery family dynamics that came with having four younger siblings.

Later, in our early years together, I once asked my honey why he loved me, he said without hesitation, “Because you’re happy.” That happiness has remained consistent throughout my adult life.

Understanding the science of tears

My curiosity got the better of me, and I asked Perplexity (my go-to LLM for research) about the state of research in psychology on people who seldom cry. Not surprisingly, different branches of psychology come to different conclusions.

From Carl Jung’s perspective (depth psychology), when someone can’t cry, it often means they’ve stuffed their deep emotions way down inside themselves (or into their shadow)—usually because they learned early on that showing vulnerability gets them hurt. This creates a kind of emotional deadness where they feel cut off from life itself; Jung would say they’ve lost touch with their soul. This seems to mirror the common assumption that infrequent crying reflects emotional coldness—and I dare say that does not describe me at all. Read on.

Instead of assuming someone who doesn’t cry is just “tough” or “unfeeling,” today psychologists understand that reduced crying actually stems from multiple different sources—one’s attachment history, one’s personal emotional coping style, one’s body’s chemistry, and one’s specific social and relationship patterns. It’s not a character strength or weakness; it’s more of a personality pattern with real consequences for how a person bonds with people.

Modern psychology reveals a nuanced picture: emotional well-being comes in different forms. Some people process emotions through tears, while others do it through talking, thinking things through, physical activity, or creative expression—all of these work equally well. True emotional health means feeling deeply, managing oneself effectively, and maintaining meaningful connections with others, and one can do all of that whether or not one cries frequently.

Laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I myself prefer to laugh, since there is less cleaning up to do afterward.

Kurt Vonnegut

My Emotional Landscape

This isn’t to say I don’t experience deep emotions. Music, in particular, can occasionally breach my tearless defences. I distinctly recall being moved to tears by Bette Midler singing The Rose in the early 80s when my first decade-long romance was ending. I’m sure it was the combination of words—”When the night has been too lonely”—and the rising melody that triggered the tears. Another time my eyes welled up was when I sang in the British Columbia Girls Choir in junior high school and, along with three other choirs, we performed Handel’s Messiah in a lovely church with amazing acoustics.

I remember another profound moment of tears in my youth. Walking home from school on the railway tracks at age 13, I sobbed while declaring to myself, “I’ll never have children, because I don’t ever want anyone to hate me as much as I hate you!” referring to my mother. That was a bit melodramatic, for sure, but you know, teen hormones; yet this memory serves to show that I was capable of intense emotional expression. Our relationship, like many mother-daughter bonds during adolescence, had become rocky, but this moment stands out as one of my rare encounters with tears.

Do I put on a happy face when I don’t feel happy? No, I don’t.

Can I express my emotions openly? Yes, I can.

Do other emotions come up for me? Yes, daily.

Daily, I feel righteous anger at global injustices, sadness at the erosion of kindness in our world, and deep concern about rising authoritarianism. In my personal life, I experience the full spectrum: disappointment, confusion, embarrassment, annoyance, and hurt balanced with love, tenderness, affection, hope, wonder, and joy.

The key isn’t whether we cry, but how we process and express our emotions. People like me, who rarely cry but are emotionally healthy and have good relationships, prove that crying isn’t the only sign of emotional strength—what really matters is whether I can handle my feelings, connect genuinely with others, and bounce back from hard times.

Would anyone who knows me (or has read this online journal) like to argue that this does not cover me?

It is such a mysterious place, the land of tears.

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

De Saint-Exupéry may be right. Perhaps equally mysterious—and equally valid—are the lands where tears seldom fall, but where emotions run just as deep and true.

How do you process sadness or grief? I’d be pleased to see your thoughts in the comments about whether tears are your go-to expression or if you’ve found other meaningful ways to experience and release these feelings.