Lately, I’ve seen the phrase male loneliness epidemic gaining traction online—often discussed in theoretical terms.
It’s not just a theory to me. It’s a reality I’ve lived.
This is a reflection from a man who has known isolation, who’s still learning how to name it, and who’s working daily to unlearn the fear that fuels it. As a middle-aged man, I want to speak to my younger brothers out there.
We can end this epidemic. But first, let me tell you a story.
A few years ago, during the pandemic, I joined a weekly Zoom group with some fellow writers. We met every Monday night to talk shop, laugh, and decompress. One of the regulars was a man we’ll call Frank.
That’s not his real name, but everything else about him is true.
Frank has lived a life big enough for five people. He’s traveled the world. He’s an extraordinary cook–I still dream about that steak. He’s also suffered unimaginable losses—his father died during the early chaos of COVID in New York, and his son passed away after a brutal battle with cancer.
Frank’s a gifted writer too. While my work tends to focus on small, intimate fictional worlds, Frank’s writing is sprawling—layered, inventive, and occasionally maddening in the best way.
One Monday night, it ended up being just the two of us on the call. I wasn’t in a good place. I was out of work, cut off from my family, and emotionally untethered.
Normally, I deflect with humor—dark, absurd, and sarcastic. It’s been my armor for years. But that night, I didn’t hide.
“Brother,” I said, “I’m hurting.”
We talked for over an hour—about writing, politics, grief, and life. By the time we hung up, it felt like I’d set down a 30-pound weight I didn’t even know I was carrying.
Before we finished, we told each other, “I love you.”
I share this because I believe far too many men are walking around carrying pain they never name. We’re afraid to be vulnerable. Afraid to be real. Afraid to simply say, “I’m hurting.”
We can end this epidemic. Not overnight—and not without discomfort. But it starts with courage, and it starts with honesty.
Historically, men have bonded through doing. Side-by-side, not face-to-face. Around campfires. On golf courses. Under car hoods. Watching a game.
That’s where real connection often happens—when the pressure to perform intimacy fades, and closeness slips in through the cracks.
Both of my grandfathers served in combat. My paternal grandfather, Barney Hall, was in the Navy during the Korean War. My maternal grandfather, Melborn Ivey, was an Army man and was wounded at Guadalcanal.
Barney rarely spoke about his service. Melborn, on the other hand, remembered the names of the men he fought beside—every hometown, every wife’s name. They weren’t just comrades. They were brothers. And while life pulled them apart, the bond never split.
Today, the male loneliness epidemic is spiraling. And it breaks my heart.
I’m a textbook introvert. I became that way after years of bullying. Most of my closest friendships have been with women—not because I “struck out” romantically, but because they listened. They didn’t flinch when I showed them who I really was.
I won’t overgeneralize, but I’ll say this: too many young men today are being sold a version of masculinity that treats vulnerability like weakness.
There’s a culture out there that tells them strength means domination. That “real men” never say they’re hurting. And while I’m deeply repelled by this and appalled by him, I need to talk about one of the loudest voices in that room: Andrew Tate.
Former kickboxer turned influencer: the poster child for so-called “alpha masculinity.” Fast cars. Models. Money. Long, rapid-fire monologues on how to be a “real man.”
If you’re a young guy feeling isolated, invisible, and angry, I get why that image might seem magnetic. “If I act like him, I’ll get the girls. I’ll get the money. I’ll get the respect.”
Let’s not forget, Tate and his brother are under investigation for serious crimes–including sex trafficking. Yet, this is the blueprint being sold to millions?
We must do better—for ourselves and for the men coming up behind us.
I believe the root of this epidemic is fear. Fear of being seen. Fear of being known. Fear that if we’re honest about what we feel, we’ll be rejected—or worse, ridiculed.
My grandfather Melborn—my hero—was a deeply flawed man. After my grandmother passed, some of his romantic choices were… questionable (to be kind.) But he was a self-made success in agriculture and real estate. He was respected nationwide for his work in farming.
In the height of his success, during the Jim Crow South, my grandfather—a wealthy white man—counted a Black man named Hosea who had little formal education as his best friend. That tells you everything you need to know about the kind of man he was.
It was also through Granddaddy where I met two of my greatest loves: Alabama football (he took me to my first Crimson Tide game in 1984, and I’ve never looked back) and storytelling. I’m a writer because he was a masterful storyteller.
Melborn was the most “alpha” man I’ve ever known. Granddaddy never had to play the part of an alpha male—he just was. His strength came from stillness, humility, and integrity.
So to the men reading this—especially my younger brothers who feel lost, angry, or alone—I want to extend an invitation:
Think of a man who showed you what true masculinity looks like. A coach. A teacher. A mentor. A friend. Someone who combined strength with gentleness. Confidence with compassion.
Text him. Email him. Call him. Buy him a cup of coffee or a beer. And tell him he matters. That’s the epidemic I’d love to spread!
Brothers, you don’t have to carry this alone.
One honest conversation can change can end years of silence. I’m not saying it’s the ultimate cure…but it might be…
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
