When the Tears Don’t Come: On Crying, Control, and What It Means to Be Human

I was eighteen years into my career as a divorce attorney when I realized I’d stopped crying.

At first, I didn’t even notice. Crying wasn’t something I did often, and never at work. I had trained myself to keep my composure, even in the face of heartbreak: children being used as ammunition, women crying in the halls of the courthouse, attorneys and judges lacking basic civility never mind compassion.. I had learned to swallow my emotions and keep moving. After all, that was what it meant to be a woman in the law—strong, rational, always in control.

In the early years, I’d wait until the end of the day to cry in my car. Or on weekends. I’d find the “appropriate” time to rage, to sob. I didn’t think of it as suppressing my emotions—I thought of it as professionalism. I was performing strength, and in a way, I was surviving.

But over time, something changed. I stopped crying. I’d still get angry, after all anger is allowed in law. Sadness? Not so much. I’d yell or vent to my family and friends, but the tears just... stopped.

And then six months went by. Then nine. I’d feel the urge to cry, but nothing came. I remember actively trying. I watched sad movies (Stepmom, Love Story), listened to the music that used to crack me open. Nothing. I started to get scared.

I wish I could tell you there was a dramatic breakthrough—some ocean sunset epiphany where the tears finally came. But no. It happened quietly, while I was talking to my son about the song “If I Had a Boat” by Lyle Lovett. A trickle, not a flood. The beginning of a thaw.

That moment didn’t fix everything. Crying didn’t return on command. But I did begin to see, really see, what my job, and suppressing my feelings had cost me.

Now, five years later, my only child has graduated from high school. It’s a season of endings and beginnings, of deep pride and anticipatory grief. If ever there was a moment for a good, hearty cry, it’s now. I’ve earned it. He’s earned it. I’ve felt the joy, the dread, the awe, but no tears.

But this time, it’s different.

This time, I’m not suppressing anything. I’m healthy. I love my work. I take time to reflect and honor what’s unfolding. I feel grateful, connected, present.

And still, I haven’t cried.

There’s a swelling behind my heart that never quite makes it to my eyes. I think this might be about my tendency to control even my emotional experience. To try to perfect the stress cycle. To feel the “right” emotions, in the “right” way, like the emotionally intelligent, well-adjusted yogi I aspire to be.

But guess what? Emotions don’t care about my timeline.

They don’t follow rules. They don’t always show up on cue. And maybe the lesson this time is about trust in the human experience. Maybe it’s about releasing the need to perform even healing perfectly.

Because sometimes, healing is invisible. Sometimes, feeling deeply doesn’t look like tears. And sometimes, honoring your emotions means letting them rise and letting them be.

Even when they don’t fall.