“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” — Henry David Thoreau
I’m incredibly proud of all the progress we’ve made around men’s mental health. Yet sometimes I wonder how much ground we’ve really gained.
On one hand, more men than ever are talking openly about anxiety, depression, grief, addiction, loneliness, and trauma. Therapy has become less stigmatized. Vulnerability is no longer treated as a character flaw in the way it once was.
Those are good things. Necessary things.
But every now and then, someone with a large platform reminds us of how much work still remains.
Recently, UFC president Dana White made comments dismissing men’s mental health struggles. He referred to discussions about mental health as essentially nonsense and suggested that men should handle their problems behind closed doors and avoid showing weakness to anyone.
Now, despite my personal feelings about Dana White, this isn’t really about Dana.
It’s about a belief that has haunted generations of men:
That strength means suffering alone.
I don’t think that’s strength.
I think it’s dangerous.
Because the mortal enemy of a man in trouble is isolation.
As Men’s Mental Health Month begins, that’s the message I want to share.
Not because I’ve read it in a textbook.
Because I’ve lived it.
And because I’ve seen it save lives.
Several years ago, I listened to an interview with former professional wrestler Kevin Von Erich.
If you’re unfamiliar with the Von Erich family, it’s difficult to overstate what they meant to professional wrestling in Texas and the South during the 1970s and 1980s.
They were royalty.
The sons of Fritz Von Erich were handsome, charismatic, athletic, and wildly popular. They filled arenas and stadiums and inspired an almost mythological level of devotion from fans.
But behind the curtain, tragedy stalked the family over and over again.
One son died in childhood.
Four more would die young.
Several by suicide.
Their story was recently dramatized in the film The Iron Claw, and if you’ve seen it, you know it’s less a sports movie than a tragedy.
Kevin is the lone surviving brother.
Imagine burying nearly everyone who shared your childhood.
Imagine waking up every day and trying to figure out how to keep going.
In the interview, Kevin shared a story that has stayed with me ever since.
We cannot imagine the weight that carries in a man’s soul.
One day, he walked into a small Texas gun store intending to buy a weapon and end his life.
But before he could leave, the owner—an older man who had been there forever—looked up and said something simple.
“Hey, Kev, I love you.”
The man talked with him.
Prayed with him.
Stayed with him.
And Kevin walked out alive.
Think about that.
No grand speech, just another man who gave a damn.
Just someone saying, “You’re not alone.”
Years later, Kevin would stand on the stage at the WWE Hall of Fame and represent his family.
One conversation changed everything.
A conversation that allowed a man to watch his children grow up.
A conversation that allowed a man to become a grandfather.
A conversation that gave him years he might not have had.
One of the biggest misconceptions about men’s mental health is that struggling men are looking for someone to fix them.
Most of the time, we just need somebody to be there.
I learned that lesson myself in 2020.
Like millions of people, I spent much of that year feeling isolated.
But every Monday, I had a standing Zoom call with a group of men I’d met at a writers’ conference a few years earlier.
Some weeks were deep.
Some weeks were completely ridiculous.
But every Monday mattered.
I don’t know where I’d be today without those conversations and without those guys.
Not because they solved my problems.
They reminded me that I wasn’t carrying them by myself.
And that matters more than people realize.
I’m a Gen Xer and I have a soft spot for the movie Swingers.
Most people remember Vegas trip, the answering machine scene, or the swing dancing.
But the older I get, the more I think the movie is about something else: brotherhood.
Mike, played by Jon Favreau, spends most of the movie heartbroken and lost.
And what do his friends do?
They refuse to let him disappear.
They drag him out of the house.
They call him.
They check on him.
They annoy him.
They love him.
My favorite scene isn’t the answering machine sequence.
It’s Mike and Trent on the golf course talking about life.
Nothing dramatic happens.
No great revelation.
Just two guys spending time together.
Looking back, that’s what real friendship often looks like.
Not grand gestures.
Presence.
Consistency.
Showing up.
My grandfathers were both combat veterans.
Tough men.
The kind of men Dana White would probably admire.
But if you asked them about their military service, the stories that mattered most weren’t always the ones people expected.
It wasn’t just about scanning the Pacific for enemy submarines.
It wasn’t just about carrying a rifle through Guadalcanal.
The moments that stayed with them were often the quiet ones.
Eating terrible food.
Sitting around camp talking about home.
Talking about fear.
Talking about life.
Talking about nothing.
And somehow talking about everything.
Even men from my father’s generation understood this.
“Let’s watch the game.”
“Let’s listen to some Pink Floyd.”
“Let’s put in a new starter on my truck.”
Maybe there was a beer involved.
Maybe there wasn’t.
The point wasn’t the activity.
The point was the connection.
The unspoken message was always the same:
“I see you’re struggling, and you don’t have to do it alone.”
Strength isn’t isolation.
Strength isn’t silence.
Real strength is having the courage to tell another human being the truth.
Because it’s not about showing weakness.
It’s about making sure another man lives long enough to see tomorrow.
And that might be the strongest thing we ever do for one another.
As the old saying goes, I’d much rather listen to your problems for an hour than to spend ten minutes eulogizing you at your funeral.
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