Miles to Go Before I Sleep

“The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
 But I have promises to keep,
 And miles to go before I sleep,
 And miles to go before I sleep.”

—Robert Frost

Trigger Warning: This article includes themes of depression and suicidal ideation. If you’re struggling, please know you’re not alone. In the U.S., you can call or text 988 to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. There is help. There is hope.

To the men reading this who are quietly holding it together while coming apart on the inside—this one’s for you.

I see you. I was you.

And I want you to hear this:

You are not broken beyond repair.
You are not weak for feeling this way.
You are not alone.

I hesitated to tell this story. Not because I’m ashamed—but because it’s heavy. Because putting pain into words sometimes makes it feel real all over again.

But I’ve come to believe that telling the truth about our darkest hours can be an act of service. A signal fire for someone else walking through the same storm.

So…buckle up…it’s story time.

2019 was almost the end of me. I lost my apartment. I lost a job. I lost any sense of forward motion. It felt like the ground dropped out from under me and I was free-falling into some version of my life I didn’t recognize.

Back home in Alabama—nearly a thousand miles away—my sister was in the middle of treatment for Stage III cancer. I couldn’t be there. I couldn’t sit beside her during chemo or make her laugh between scans. I got updates secondhand. And felt useless.

By the grace of God, my sister’s thriving today!

At the time, I was working late-night shifts at Trader Joe’s. Good job. Good people. But I’d drag myself home after 2 a.m., exhausted in body and spirit.

I was wearing the mask well. But underneath? I was unraveling.

Then one night I stumbled on a job posting: copywriter wanted at a boutique ad agency in White Plains.

What’s the one thing I do better than anything? Combining letters into words.

And for a moment—just a flicker—I felt something. Maybe hope. Maybe purpose.

I applied. I got the interview. I got the job.

But the job wasn’t what I thought it would be. I wasn’t writing. I was moving blocks of text around on a website while dodging office politics.

Three days into a brand-new decade—January 3, 2020—I was let go.

Just like that.

I walked out of that office into the kind of winter day that felt like spring. I sat down on a park bench and stared into nothing.

And then the thought came: Would anyone even notice if I disappeared?

It wasn’t a metaphor. It wasn’t an emotional cry for help.

It was a plan.

I looked up the Metro-North schedule. There was a train leaving for Grand Central at 3:15. I bought a ticket.

But I wasn’t going to the city.

I wanted to disappear in front of that train.

You feel me?

Somewhere between buying the ticket and stepping on the platform, something shifted. It wasn’t a breakthrough. It wasn’t grace. Just inertia.

I got on the train.

I sat like a ghost, staring out the window. Whatever fire had lived inside me felt long extinguished.

When I got to Manhattan, I wandered the streets. Midtown was still lit up with holiday displays. People were shoulder to shoulder, living their lives.

But I felt like I was floating through a world I didn’t belong in anymore.

My feet carried me—without intention or logic—to the steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Just a couple of blocks from Grand Central.

I’m not Catholic. I wasn’t sure I believed in anything at that point.

But I walked inside.

It was quiet. Reverent. A sacred kind of stillness that wrapped around me like a weighted blanket.

I sat in the last pew.

I didn’t pray. I didn’t cry. I just sat.

And in that silence, something settled.

Not a voice. Not a revelation.

Just a whisper of a thought:

You still have miles to go before you sleep.

A short while later, I got back on the train and I went home. I pet my dog Pete. I collapsed on the floor, sobbing so hard I thought I might never stop. Pete licked my face until I finally could breathe again.

And the next morning?

I got up.

And then I got up the day after that.

In the years since, I’ve rebuilt.

I’ve written over 200 articles for The Good Men Project.

I’ve written and published books. Hosted podcasts. Told stories that changed the world.

I’ve broken down. Gotten back up. Made peace with the mess.

I’m still here.

And if you’re reading this—so are you.

That matters.

We live in a culture where men are told to power through. Swallow it. Man up. Don’t cry. Don’t feel.

“Rub some dirt on it, bro!”

And so we learn to wear the mask.

Until the mask starts to crack.

By the time most men admit they’re in trouble, they’ve been hurting for years.

But I’m here to tell you—breaking isn’t the end. Sometimes, it’s where the real work begins.

As a wise woman once told me, “Sometimes you have to re-break a bone to get it to heal correctly.”

I’m 48 now. And here’s what I’ve learned:

• Your pain is valid.
• Your story isn’t over.
• You’re allowed to feel.
• You’re allowed to ask for help.
• You’re allowed to stay.

You matter.

And if you’re in that place right now—that cold, sharp, hopeless place—please reach out.

Call a friend. Talk to a therapist. Or dial 988 and talk to someone who knows how to listen.

Just don’t carry this alone.

Not one more day.

There’s a saying I keep close:

“I’d rather hear your story for an hour than speak at your funeral for fifteen minutes.”

You’re not a burden. You’re not a failure. You’re not done.

You’re human.

You’re still here.

You still have miles to go before you sleep.

And I’m damn glad I stuck around to walk mine.

Let’s keep walking.

Together.

If this story spoke to you, pass it on. Maybe a friend needs it. A coworker. Your brother. Your Dad. That guy at the gym who never quite meets your eyes.

Somewhere out there is a man who thinks he’s alone in his pain.

Let him know he’s not.

One step at a time, my brothers.

Miles to go…

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This Post is republished on Medium.

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Photo credit:iStock