Last Saturday night, I found myself up late, rewatching Backdraft—that 1991 film about Chicago firefighters wrestling with more than just literal flames. The movie got me thinking more about masculinity—what it really means in my own life, how it shapes who I am as a man and a psychologist, and where it turns up in the therapy room. I’ll be straight: as a white, cis male in a profession that’s now mostly women, I don’t always feel like I fit.¹,²

It’s odd—because step outside the therapy field and you see how much power still sits with blokes who look a lot like me. Everything is shifting fast, and navigating that can be… well, uncomfortable, and humbling in ways I don’t always have words for.

Back in 2021, a couple of mentors—one whose wisdom was shaped in rural New Zealand, the other by migration and decades of practice here—pointed me to the philosopher Kate Manne. I devoured her books Down Girl and Entitled³ and, honestly, they left me raw. Parts of myself I thought I understood felt suddenly sharper. I’m a husband, father, son, work alongside women every day, but I ended up wrestling: How do you do masculinity well, when privilege and power dynamics are so baked into everything? Kate Manne helped me see just how much harm can sit in things men, me included, take for granted, and how much bigger the fire beneath really is.

I thought about this again the other night, stuck in a waiting room with my unwell daughter, trying to keep my worry from showing. My work asks me to sit with all sorts of pain—grief, loss, fear, anger. I’m supposed to be the steady one, but being steady isn’t just about being hard or stoic. Sometimes it means letting yourself feel. The truth is, being a real presence for people—friends, kids, clients—means learning to be tender and honest, not just tough. I didn’t get there alone. It’s taken therapy, many years in a deep relationship, being a dad, and a lot of open (and sometimes painful) conversations with people who call me out and in.

One thing that stands out from honest talks with mentors—male, female, non-binary, queer, past and present—and from clients of all kinds, is this: When men don’t feel safe to speak up, to be seen for who they are, they’ll shut down, get angry, disappear, or just carry shame alone. I know what that’s like—I’ve lived versions of all of it myself. The trick, I keep learning, is not to close off, but to stay close to your own rawness. That’s the bit that lets you really meet people, whoever they are and wherever they come from.

It isn’t just a men’s issue, either. These old stories about how to feel, who’s allowed to fall apart, ripple out—everyone close to the fire gets singed. That “backdraft” isn’t just in men’s bodies. It’s felt by women, non-binary folks, whole families, workplaces. People adapt: some over-function, some retreat, some just go numb. In the end, the old ghosts—the ones telling us what we must hide or swallow—keep the disconnection going.

Terrence Real said it best: “You cannot be invulnerable and intimate at the same time.” I’ve seen it in my own life and work—distance always wins when pain gets hidden. Sometimes anger, silence, or busyness is just a way of holding back a wave of old hurt that no one ever helped us name.

Maybe that’s why Backdraft has always stuck with me. I grew up with that movie—fiery action, yes, but underneath, it’s about blokes holding onto family secrets, carrying wounds that never got air, and a version of masculinity that expects you to walk through the fire alone. When no one shows you another way—or tells you it’s okay to feel—it’s all too easy to pass along the burn.

Here’s the truth I keep coming back to, in therapy and in life: healing means facing the fire—your fear, your shame, your old anger—with your eyes open and your heart soft. Real change comes when you’re willing to be both strong and exposed; when you honour the hurts AND the hope for something better.

I’m grateful to the mentors, authors, clients, and mates who have helped me learn to sit with the heat. I hope, whoever reads this, you feel less alone in it all. We don’t have to pass the wounds on. There’s another way—one that’s messy, honest, but ultimately worth it.

If any part of this sparks something in you, or if you’ve felt this kind of heat, I’d love to hear your story. Where have you seen old fires smouldering in your own life—or where have you found courage to do things differently?

References

1. While I identify primarily as a settler Australian of Anglo-Celtic background, there is strong evidence in my family of Indigenous Australian ancestry. I acknowledge and respect the complexity and significance of this lineage, even as it sits alongside a predominantly settler heritage.
2. As of 2023, 84% of psychologists and psychotherapists in Australia are women (with the median age of psychologists being 42 years).
   Source: Jobs and Skills Australia – Psychologists and Psychotherapists Occupational Profile
3. Manne, K. (2017). Down Girl: The Logic of Misogyny. Oxford University Press.
   Manne, K. (2020). Entitled: How Male Privilege Hurts Women. Crown.
   Currently, I’m reading her latest, Unshrinking: How to Fight Fatphobia (2024), which fiercely exposes how systemic bias extends to our bodies, too.
4. Real, T. (1997). I Don’t Want to Talk About It: Overcoming the Secret Legacy of Male Depression. Scribner.
5. Real, T. (2022). Us: Getting Past You and Me to Build a More Loving Relationship. Scribe.
6. Reiss, G. (2007). Angry Men, Angry Women, Angry World: Moving from Destructiveness to Creativity. Changing Worlds Press.
7. Howard, R. (Director). (1991). Backdraft [Film]. Universal Pictures.

Ben Crebert is a clinical psychologist, psychotherapist, and supervisor based in Maitland, NSW ( Wonnaruah Country). He specializes in EMDR, Process Oriented Psychology, and Integrative approaches to healing trauma and supporting authentic self-expression. His work focuses on helping individuals, couples, families and organisations discover and live from their deepest values for greater fulfillment and sustainability.