In 1986, aged 32 and building a career as a statistician in Cambridge, I saw a notice in the local health food shop window, advertising an open meeting of a “Men’s Group”. The notice caught my eye because I was, to be honest, struggling with being a man. I had recently separated from my wife after eight years together and our marriage counselling had uncomfortably shown that my upbringing, although supportive, had given me no training in expressing my feelings, or even knowing what they were. We didn’t argue, as I avoided all confrontation, dreading the late-night remark – “We should talk.” But I didn’t know how to talk, and/or how to listen.
I had become acutely aware of how I was like some creature inside its protective shell, and that I needed to do something about it to avoid history repeating itself in future. A good (female) friend suggested I needed male company, but I was wary. I didn’t have close male friends to confide in, and most of my experience of male conversation had been in the pub and consisted of opinions about “stuff” – my work (which I enjoyed a lot), politics, sport, music, TV – often in competitive banter, each trying to better the previous story.
The marriage counselling had shown me a different way of communicating – of being listened to by the counsellor, without judgment, or the need to negotiate the complexities of an emotional attachment. I wanted to be able to carry this forward, and not just as a “client” to a professional. So when I spotted the advert, I overcame my immediate scepticism, summoned up my courage and phoned the number.
We met a week later in a bright, shiny space in a GP’s premises, which was empty for the weekend: three men attracted by the advert and five already in the group. We were in our 30s to 50s. I was immediately impressed that there was a creche for some of the men’s children, and by the time they took for a round of introductions, which focused on personal lives rather than our jobs.
The group had been running for two years. It had been started by Willie, a former social worker turned carpenter, who was struggling to develop a career and sense of meaning in work; his local health practice was encouraging self-help groups. I learned the group was deliberately trying to challenge the traditional way in which men communicated with each other, distancing from “toxic masculinity”, with the aim, as Willie – a quiet and thoughtful wearer of eccentric waistcoats – told me, of “becoming a man I was proud of”.
We talked about ourselves, what had brought us here and what we were finding difficult in our lives. Later, in the middle of a “guided fantasy” in which we lay on the floor while Steve talked us along the beach of a tropical island, the local community constable stuck his head round the door labelled “Men’s Workshop”, saw us all laid out, exclaimed, “Oh my gawd” and left as fast as he could. There was an exciting feeling, confirmed by the constable, that we were doing something different and special. One of the newcomers felt able to cry – and didn’t have to explain why.
The group was part of an anti-sexist men’s movement that briefly blossomed in the 1980s, with men’s conferences, a regional network of groups, a magazine called Achilles Heel and so on. There was no clear spokesman or guidebook, although Steve Biddulph’s Manhood summarised well the male problems we were trying to tackle: “Loneliness, compulsive competition and lifelong emotional timidity.”
This didn’t feel so unusual 35 years ago; it was the age of women’s groups and questioning assumptions about masculinity. It had nothing to do with any idea of protecting “men’s rights” that might be threatened by women. In fact, the explicit idea was to support feminism and explore what we thought of as the “feminine” side of our personality.
We already were taking on a fair share of domestic duties and, in particular, childcare. – This was unavoidable for me, as my wife and I had negotiated a 50-50 split in the care of our three-year-old daughter and so, for half the week, I was a single parent.
The three of us who had turned up for the workshop that day became enthusiastic new members. We met fortnightly in each other’s houses. In the first part of the meeting, each of us would take our turn – without interruption – to give an update on our lives. This was called “news and goods” – a term apparently used in other forms of support group – and it would last about an hour. The updates would be both mundane and occasionally dramatic; we never knew which to expect.
Then, after a break for tea, a particular issue could be followed up in more depth, with more interaction and questioning. No topic was off limits, but the aim was to talk about our feelings in responding to life’s events rather than our opinions about the world. So we could explore domestic challenges, new jobs, even childhood memories, and we could all chip in with questions and stories. As Willie says: “Traditional male subjects, such as sport and cars, were not especially taboo, but simply unnecessary.”
***
There have always been a few unwritten “rules”. The first is, of course, complete confidentiality – we ’ve heard revelations that might have shocked close partners. Second, respectful listening – not interrupting, and genuinely paying attention to what is being said. This interest did not have to be feigned – as we got to know more about each other, updates on the details of our individual lives have been keenly followed like multiple soap operas (although even more far-fetched). Third, we have always been leaderless, which has suited us all fine – perhaps those with an urge to control would never end up in such a group. This small amount of formality provided a useful bit of structure and ensured everyone had their say, whatever mood people were in. We seemed to naturally avoid the archetypally male approach of trying to solve every problem and instead focused on asking questions to explore what was going on, out of genuine curiosity. Silences were OK, but we also laughed a lot.
Everyone was facing challenges and looked to the group for connection and support, and I was not the only one for whom domestic trauma had led to increased responsibilities. Martin, a teacher whose longstanding partner was killed in a car accident, was bringing up her children as a single father. Steve, a teacher and counsellor, also – like me – had a 50-50 childcare arrangement after separating from his wife, which had left him “totally devastated”. Other members were also very much hands-on parents – within the group this felt normal, and children have always been a routine topic of discussion.
The messy bits of people’s lives have been fascinating, although confidentiality means that, unfortunately, I can’t give the details of all the extraordinary stories. But I can say that for decades we’ve listened to concerns about drinking too much, being fed up with work, enjoying work, suffering from depression, negotiating bisexuality, difficulties with partners, anxieties about children, joys of partners and children, and so on – all the usual business of living.
We’ve tried many things: for a while, some of us met to sing traditional music together; we’ve spent evenings taking photographs of each other, experimenting with different lighting. We went on short breaks to a beach house in Norfolk, gathering cockles and making fires. For a series of meetings we took it in turns to choose our eight Desert Island Discs, playing them on cassette tapes and explaining why they were important to us. I only had to make a few changes to my list when I recently achieved my life’s ambition of getting on the programme myself.
We had open meetings and helped other groups start up. We addressed a conference on “Between Men and Feminism”, surprising the academic audience by getting them to talk to each other in small groups, and cooperatively writing a chapter for the subsequent book produced by the conference organisers.
We’ve built things together, such as a bench as a wedding present for a member, and the coffin for my son, Danny, after he died of cancer, aged five. Our family was expecting Danny’s death and, inspired by the wonderful Natural Death Handbook, I had already decided to build his coffin myself. I knew my carpentry was not up to much, but at that time we had two trained carpenters in the group, so all of us worked in our yard through the afternoon and into the evening, and made a perfectly serviceable coffin. We knew it was the right size as I had drawn a template around Dan while he lay in the house after his death.
Then other friends took over the external and internal decoration, and on the day of his funeral we carried Dan down the street with pride. This has been a lasting source of satisfaction and helped me feel able to discuss my feelings about Dan and the impact of his death on our family, month after month, year after year, over the subsequent 25 years, without anyone wanting to change the subject. What a privilege.
***
Gradually, I felt with the group’s help I was getting better at acknowledging my feelings of vulnerability, and building a supportive framework to help me with being (for a while) a part-time single parent. It can all sound rather solemn, but we haven’t spent our time beating ourselves up about how awful men are: as Willie said, we were aiming for a positive masculinity. It’s been funny to identify and even celebrate our idiosyncrasies, and how little we change over decades, whether it’s struggles with procrastination, hypochondria or lack of interest in home furnishings. We can laugh with each other, and increasingly at ourselves.
We have also tried to be self-critical as a group, acknowledging our limitations: we don’t feel we know the answers, or are in any way exemplars of good behaviour. We acknowledge that we have tended to avoid being critical, and that we could be bolder in confronting each other, but maybe our tolerance and caution has helped us keep going and not fall out.
We’ve been a “closed” group and, from that day in 1986, have never again advertised for new members. There’s been remarkably little churn; some have left or moved away, two have died, and we’ve found a good size is between five and seven. Unfortunately we are not very diverse: we are all white and have aged together, but a mix of straight, bi and gay members over the years has benefited us all. Some also meet up outside the group, as pairs of friends.
We are increasingly faced by our own mortality. As we’ve inevitably grown older – I’m now 68 – issues with our health have come forward, and recently we’ve had another cancer diagnosis and treatment. I even found the funny side of having a catheter after prostate surgery which, with no sensation of a full bladder, required some conscious attention to the amount being drunk. It is inevitable that we have shared the deaths of parents, relatives and friends – when one of us was dying in hospital, Willie says his experience in the group helped him to be there, listening, simply holding hands as a friend.
As Martin says, this has “made me appreciate the value of making each day count; the preciousness and fragility of moments are increasingly valued in the group. Death was, and still arguably is, the last taboo subject, but we are determined to celebrate it and show gratitude and grace, as well as grief.”
***
Events in the outside world have made limited impact, until, of course, the pandemic forced us to change our habits in an unprecedented way. Zoom was not a satisfactory substitute for meeting in real life: one-to-one conversations can work quite well, but more than that seems to require physical presence to achieve intimacy. So as soon as we could, we became a walking group, exploring the countryside around Cambridge. This works well at an individual level – talking is often easier side-by-side than face-to-face – but, inevitably, the group dynamics changed, and we needed to stop and be in a circle for our “news and goods”.
We’ve all changed from having the group in our lives. Martin said the best tribute was when an old friend said he’s become more open, while Willie identified the acceptance by the group of his recurrent anxiety and depression. Steve said the fact that members had known so much about him over such a long period, and still seem to like and appreciate him, had been a real boost to his confidence, and wondered how many men are out there today facing relationship breakups, work struggles, personal confusion and mental health battles without experiencing much of a connection with anyone, and how many of those might benefit from something like the group we had.
Vic, a previous member who has moved away, told us that the traditional, working-class version of masculinity he grew up with was working against his own best interests. “I came to realise that I had only been living half a life, denying myself so much for fear that it might diminish me in some way,” he says.
Many people seem mystified by the idea of a men’s group, which suggests we may be an anachronism – a remnant of the 1980s. Ideally, of course, there would be no need for it to exist, and society does seem to have moved on. Statistics, backed up by personal observation, show that over the last 30 years, men have been spending far more time caring for their children, although still well behind women. Paternity leave has become standard. But there is still, apparently, a need for organisations such as the Fatherhood Institute to encourage “involved fatherhood”, and Men’s Sheds to help men’s mental health through creating “spaces for men to connect, converse and create”.
It has been a huge privilege to follow the events of the lives of the men in the group – both important and trivial – through the years, sharing their disappointments, joys, sadnesses and anger. Being able to discuss topics that would be difficult even with one’s partner, and being confident about being treated kindly – and confidentially.
And to think I nearly walked past that flyer in 1986. Thirty-six years later, more than half my life, I’m still talking to the same men. And, with luck, will continue to have a lot more to talk about.
• David Spiegelhalter is chair of the Winton Centre for Risk and Evidence Communication, University of Cambridge.
Comments on this piece are premoderated to ensure the discussion remains on the topics raised by the article. Please be aware that there may be a short delay in comments appearing on the site.
