On Purim, the world turns upside down.

Our streets and synagogues transform into a vibrant chaos of superheroes and queens, clowns and beasts. It is a day where children delight in the shedding of their identities, and adults embrace the license of the wig and the greasepaint. We celebrate the “topsy-turvy” spirit of the Megillat Esther, a narrative where nothing is as it seems and salvation arrives in disguise.

But at the heart of this carnivalesque joy sits a profound paradox: the tension between what is hidden and what is revealed. In the Purim story, God’s name is famously absent- a “Hidden Presence” operating behind the curtain of coincidence. Esther herself must hide her heritage before find the courage to unveil it.

The masks we wear on Purim are playful, but they point to a somber truth: most of us carry stories that never make it to the surface.

For many fathers, that hidden story is one of silent, heavy emotion.

While the children don their capes, many fathers are already wearing a permanent, invisible costume. Social scripts still demand that a “good father” be the unshakeable pillar – strong, steady, and perpetually in control. We take pride in the “grind,” in providing, and in maintaining a calm exterior under the crushing pressure of modern life.

Yet, behind this controlled facade often lies a different reality – the exhaustion of the breadwinner, the gnawing worry of financial instability, the fear of failing one’s children, and the quiet ache of loneliness.

The data on masculinity is clear and sobering. From a young age, boys are often conditioned to prune their emotional palettes, discarding sadness, fear, or vulnerability as “unmanly” traits. When a father’s only permitted public emotions are “competent” or “stoic,” the internal pressure cookery begins to hiss. Research consistently links this rigid adherence to traditional masculine norms – specifically emotional suppression – to higher rates of depression, substance abuse, and, tragically, suicide.

Admitting a need for help is often viewed not as a step toward health, but as a breach of the unwritten contract of manhood.

This “emotional mask” does more than isolate the man; it creates a chill in the home. When a father appears perpetually “fine” but is internally struggling, the lack of authentic openness creates a barrier to intimacy. Partners sense the distance; children internalize the silence.

Psychological studies suggest that fathers who feel compelled to remain emotionally fortress-like are more likely to dismiss or punish their children’s own displays of vulnerability. In these homes, the lesson is passed down like a grim inheritance: to be a man is to be a mask. This cycle fosters avoidant attachment styles in children, teaching them that their own deepest feelings are unwelcome or shameful.

Purim offers a powerful theological opening to break this cycle. The holiday celebrates the vunlerable queen who saves a nation – the hidden becoming known. It is a day of “reversal.”

Imagine if we used Purim as an invitation to lower the mask. This doesn’t require a grand proclamation; it begins in the quiet corners of our lives. It looks like a father telling a friend, “I’m struggling with this transition,” or admitting to a partner, “I’m more scared than I let on.”

We see the transformative power of this shift in contemporary Israel. In the wake of the profound trauma of October 7th, new spaces have emerged for soldiers and reservists – many of them young fathers – to process the horrors of combat. These men have found that sharing their “hidden stories” does not erase the pain, but it does transform it. By dropping the mask of the “invincible warrior” in a safe space, they find the capacity to be more present, engaged, and emotionally available fathers when they return home.

This Purim, as we admire the costumes in our communities, we must remember that the heaviest masks are the ones we cannot see.

The story of Esther reminds us that the courage to reveal what is hidden can change the fate of an entire people. Similarly, encouraging fathers to remove their emotional masks can change the trajectory of a family.

There is a deep, resonant hope that men can move toward a world where they wear costumes by choice, not by coercion.

I hope that this year, our synagogues are filled with “superhero” fathers who are brave enough to be vulnerable – men who know that their strength isn’t found in what they hide, but in the truth they finally dare to show.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)