For most of my life, I believed I had underactive tear glands. As a teenager, the stiff upper lip culture of boarding school and emotionally reserved parents meant tears were a foreign concept. I didn't cry at my wedding, nor at the births of my daughters. Even when my grandmother passed away at 18, sadness was present, but tears were absent. It was a matter of control, I assumed, never considering it a problem until a musical changed everything.
The West End Revelation
In 2023, I attended the musical Operation Mincemeat in London's West End. Initially drawn by its humour, which cleverly satirised the public school environment I knew well, I returned multiple times. It was during one of these repeat visits that the song "Dear Bill" struck a profound chord. This poignant number features a woman writing to her husband on the WWII frontline, expressing heartache through metaphors like tending to dull roses.
A Floodgate Opens
To my shock, tears finally flowed. I had to bring my wife, Yael, to witness this breakthrough, as she had long viewed me as emotionally repressed. When the song played, I guided her hand to my damp cheek, and her expression mirrored my own astonishment. The song's layers of repression resonated deeply; the character, Hester Leggatt, rarely shows emotion, and the lyrics subtly convey separation's pain.
One line, "Why did we meet in the middle of a war, what a silly thing for anyone to do," taken from a real historical letter, added authenticity. On subsequent viewings, I noticed Hester accidentally saying "Tom" instead of "Bill," a moment of raw poignancy. I've now seen the show 29 times, with a 30th booked, and crying has become a Pavlovian response to its music.
Beyond the Theatre
This awakening extended far beyond the stage. I found myself weeping at films like Interstellar and Mandela: Long Walk to Freedom, even at a Brandi Carlile concert—despite it not being my usual taste. Her song about children's innocence brought tears streaming down, amusing my wife, who cries easily at advertisements.
A More Rounded Person
The emotional release proved cathartic, especially when a close friend, Josh, died unexpectedly from stomach cancer at 34. At his funeral, I was an emotional mess, but it felt good to express grief openly rather than repress it. I imagined Josh laughing at my sobs, knowing my former stoicism. Afterwards, sharing drinks felt cleansing, a release I might not have managed without Operation Mincemeat.
As a teacher, I've even taken my year 6 students to see the musical, hearing sniffles that weren't just mine. This journey has taught me that crying isn't a weakness but a skill that enriches life, making me happier and more connected to others.
