Silence Isn’t Strength — It’s Isolation in Disguise
In the ancient Chinese story of the Empty Fort Strategy, the military strategist Zhuge Liang faced an overwhelming enemy army with almost no troops. Rather than flee, he did something unexpected: he opened all the city gates wide, stationed a few old men to sweep the streets, and sat atop the wall calmly playing music. The enemy general, seeing this display of confidence, assumed it was a trap — that thousands of soldiers must be hiding inside, waiting to ambush. Terrified, he retreated. The fort was empty, but the illusion of strength saved it.
For many Black men, we’ve mastered our own version of the Empty Fort Strategy. We’ve learned to project invincibility — gates wide open, appearing unbothered, performing calm confidence — while inside, we’re empty. Isolated. Struggling. We say “I’m good” when we’re drowning. We nod along in conversation while our real thoughts stay locked away. We’ve constructed thick walls of emotional armor and perfected surface-level exchanges that reveal nothing. No vulnerability. No genuine connection. No one who really knows us because we never say what we actually mean or express what we truly need.
Unlike Zhuge Liang’s brilliant tactical deception, ours has become a trap we’ve built for ourselves. The empty fort keeps people out, but it also keeps us trapped — alone with unprocessed pain, unspoken needs, and the exhausting performance of having it all together. We’ve become so good at the strategy that we’ve forgotten it was supposed to be temporary, a tactic for survival in hostile environments, not a permanent way of living.
The Cost of Silence
The price of closed communication compounds over time. Unspoken resentments calcify into permanent distance. Unexpressed needs transform into chronic disappointment. Unshared struggles metastasize into depression, anxiety, or rage that seems to come from nowhere. The silence that once felt like protection becomes a prison.
Relationships suffer most acutely. Partners feel shut out, wondering what they did wrong when really you just never learned to let anyone in. Friendships remain shallow because depth requires disclosure, and you’ve made a habit of surface-level exchange. Children learn by watching, and they’re learning that real men don’t share, don’t feel, don’t connect. The generational pattern continues.
Your own wellbeing deteriorates too. Humans are wired for connection — real connection, not the performance of it. When you consistently suppress your inner world, your body keeps score. Stress hormones stay elevated. Sleep suffers. You might find yourself turning to substances, overworking, or other numbing behaviors just to manage the weight of carrying everything alone. The fortress you built for protection has become your solitary confinement.
Breaking the Pattern
James is a forty-two-year-old electrician and father of three. For twenty years of marriage, James had been the strong, silent type. He provided financially, showed up physically, and handled business. But emotionally, he was a ghost in his own home. His wife, Keisha, had long stopped asking how he felt about things because the answer was always the same: “Fine. Good. Don’t worry about it.”
When James’s mother died unexpectedly, something cracked. For the first time in his adult life, he couldn’t maintain the facade. He’d find himself sitting in his car after work, unable to go inside, overwhelmed by grief he had no language for. He wasn’t sleeping. He was short-tempered with his kids. Keisha noticed but had learned not to push.
One evening, she found him in the garage, just standing there staring at nothing. Instead of asking if he was okay — a question they both knew would yield the standard response — she said something different: “James, I know you’re not fine. And I need you to know that I can handle whatever you’re actually feeling. I married all of you, not just the strong parts.”
Something about her words broke through. Maybe it was the grief wearing down his defenses. Maybe it was decades of isolation finally becoming unbearable. James took a breath and said five words he’d never said to another adult: “I don’t know what to do.”
That confession opened a door. Over the following weeks, James began talking — haltingly at first, then with increasing honesty. He talked about missing his mother. About feeling like a failure because he hadn’t visited her more. About his fear of dying before his kids really knew him. About how tired he was of pretending he had everything figured out.
Keisha listened without trying to fix anything. She asked questions. She shared her own struggles with her father’s death years earlier. For the first time in their marriage, they were actually talking — not about logistics or the kids or bills, but about their inner worlds.
The transformation wasn’t immediate or complete. James still struggled with vulnerability. But he’d tasted what real communication could create, and there was no going back to the empty fortress. He started therapy. He initiated deeper conversations with his sons. He even opened up to his best friend about his grief, discovering his friend had been carrying similar weights in silence.
The Practice of Openness
Real strength isn’t projecting invincibility or maintaining the illusion. It’s practicing open communication — saying the true thing instead of the safe thing, expressing needs instead of expecting mind-reading, building bridges of honest dialogue instead of walls of silence. It’s having the courage to stop performing, to let people see what’s actually inside.
This doesn’t mean oversharing with everyone or abandoning all boundaries. Open communication requires wisdom about context and trust. You don’t pour your heart out to strangers or people who’ve proven themselves unsafe. But within trusted relationships — with partners, close friends, family members who’ve earned access — open communication means showing up authentically.
Start with small truths. Instead of “I’m fine,” try “I’m dealing with some stress at work.” Instead of nodding along when you disagree, try “I see it differently.” Instead of disappearing when you’re overwhelmed, try “I need some time to process this.” These small shifts create space for deeper honesty over time.
Learn to identify what you’re feeling before you can communicate it. Many men have such limited emotional vocabulary that they can only identify anger or fine. Expand your language. Are you frustrated? Disappointed? Anxious? Lonely? Overwhelmed? The more precisely you can name your inner experience, the more effectively you can communicate it.
Filling the Fortress
Open communication transforms the empty fort. When you speak your truth — “I’m struggling,” “I need help,” “I’m scared” — you invite others in. You create space for genuine support. You discover you’re not alone in your battles. The walls remain, but now they protect something worth protecting — authentic relationships built on truth-telling, honest emotion, and the vulnerability that creates real connection.
The goal isn’t demolishing your defenses entirely. It’s building trusted relationships where real communication can happen, where hard conversations lead to deeper connection, and where there’s something genuine and alive inside the walls. Your fortress doesn’t need to be empty. Fill it with the richness that only honest connection can provide, and you will truly be crafting what has yet to exists.
Fredrick Bush, LCSW, has over a decade of experience empowering Black men, women, and couples to navigate their personal growth and relationships. He is the founder of Eidolon Therapeutic Counseling, LLC (eidolon.help) and creator of the ICBM Workshop Series (icbmale.com). Bush also hosts the On Being Black Men (OBBM) podcast.
Date posted: December 9, 2025
Author: Fredrick Bush